


Caught in Your Spider's Web

by eyrist



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe, Angst, Complicated Relationships, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, Flashbacks, Goro Big Bang NSFW 2020, In Media Res, M/M, Mystery, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Prostitution, Rape/Non-con Elements, Recreational Drug Use, Shameless Smut, Slow Burn, Smut, Substance Abuse, Unreliable Narrator, Violence, aerial silks dancer au, silks dancer!akira, silks dancer!goro
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-15 19:14:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29069391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyrist/pseuds/eyrist
Summary: Through distorted lens, a spider is nothing more than a butterfly stuck in its own silk.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Comments: 3
Kudos: 23
Collections: Goro Big Bang NSFW 2020





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> [even I can do better this ain't just a dream.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Td6t1MsebP4&list=PLkNa30I_jAe3A4hUDnkmROKZsYrse3bnO&index=1&ab_channel=MusicLover)

What was a life worth?

Now that was a question, with much too many answers lying in wait.

While some would say that a life was priceless, others would argue that it was nothing more than a gambling chip. There’d be the philosophical ones that describe a life as a universe of infinite possibilities and concepts, while there’d be the jaded ones saying life was but a series of unfortunate events that never ended until the day one took their final breath— and even _then_ , the day Death came knocking would probably be the shittiest of them all.

If you asked Goro Akechi what a life was worth, he wouldn’t know what to say. Maybe he’d tell you that Death was an everyday occurrence, the inevitable end that was part of life; Maybe he’d side with the jaded group, saying it really _wasn’t_ all the storybooks and movies played it out to be.  
Maybe, just perhaps, he would tell you that life was worth nothing, when you came down to it in the end. After all, one was born to spend years of their life working towards a vague, shapeless goal, over and over, and yet never becoming satisfied— before it was all erased with a bullet striking a key location in one’s body, or an accident coming to fruition at an unexpected point in time. Goro knew a lot about that.

He knew a lot about desires, and just how much they could consume someone, to the point of being blinded from the finish line every living being reached.

Particularly, he knew about his own desires: To dance, to entice, to be the shining star every eye turned towards the moment he made his appearance, never strayed until he burned out. _That_ was his vague, shapeless goal.

Though it was initially _dance_ that’d plunged him head-first into this life, Goro Akechi had never truly felt that it reached the very core—the rock bottom of the depths of his soul—when he came down to it. While true, dancing had been the gateway, it was but mere prologue for what was to come, to a boy aged eighteen that found himself at the doorstep of a new studio.  
Faced with silk and feet off the ground, with naught but the strength of his own body to keep him falling from the edge, that was the first time he felt that something _clicked_ — But that was a story from years past already; The story of eighteen-year-old Goro Akechi starting from the very bottom before clawing his way to the tippy-top.

This?

This was the story of what came in the midst of being above all else, both literally and metaphorically.

Now twenty-three and at the top of his game, he’d long graduated from mere street performances and shady, sleezy businesses; _Now_ , at sweet, sweet twenty-three and the best of the best, he was no passing name on the streets and on the internet; Now, at this point of his life, at the very _apex_ of his career, he was just about ready to step up past the peak of the mountain and reach God himself.

For _now_ , as he were, he was the main attraction, in a club that was far too luxurious and far too high-profile to be for the mere passer-by. He was no longer _Crow_ , as he’d exchanged his old name for one much more appealing, pleasing to the ears of people that had too much money on them, the moment he’d stepped onto that grand stage.

He was _Rapunzel_ , and with his silken cloth spun from the golden threads of luxury and a Hell of a lot of hard work, he was the star of the show— the pièce de résistance of The Velvet Room.

A regular day in the life of Rapunzel, though, was one copy-pasted into each coming day of the week.  
Early in the mornings, he’d awake to the sun barely peeking through the horizon, and then after getting a protein shake in his system, he’d go on a quick morning cycle. Once he’d gotten but a _hint_ of breakfast, he’d start his exercise routine, shower, get dressed, and then head out to the club-affiliated dance studio to begin practise on his routines.

Every day, ever since getting recruited into The Velvet Room, _that_ was the cycle of his life.

While most of his performances were solo acts (with a single spotlight saved solely for him and him _alone_ ) there would be times that he’d be partnered up with another dancer. Rare, but an event that happened all the same. It could’ve been an aerial hoop dancer, or a pole dancer, or some other of the sort that brought wonder and awe in the eyes of the audience from being off the ground and in the air gracefully; But, it seemed, that that wasn’t going to be the same for long.  
See, Goro could work well with other aerial dancers—call it good synergy, or imbecilic determination to just _shut up_ and _get along_ —and all of his performances with them had ended up in the way that _everyone_ expected it to end up: jaw-dropping and absolutely _perfect_ , amazing in each and every way. He was good at that (at just getting the job done and making sure the eyes were still on him) but that was because Rapunzel was already an established star, and a double act was but a means to get the club’s patrons interested in the _other_ performances The Velvet Room had to offer.

And really, it wasn’t much of a surprise when an attendant of the club came up to him one night, guided him to the office; It wasn’t a shock to his system to be told he’d be partnering up again, when he’d just finished a joint performance the week prior; It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, when he was told he’d be working with an aerialist once more.

What got him was the fact that he’d be pairing with another silk dancer— and a _newbie_ , at that.

The head manager of The Velvet Room hadn’t called him a _newbie_ per say (not, at _all_ , by a long shot) but Goro still couldn’t stop feeling _iffy_ about this entire arrangement as he listened. One part of him retreated into his head to dwell on the prospect of working with another person on the silks, and another part was half-listening, half-paying attention. By the time he left the office, he really only got the gist of it.  
For one, he was a no-name performer that Goro never even _heard of_ before; For another, he was, apparently, someone that’d only been training in the art of aerial silk dancing for all but _two years_. Though his manager and boss assured him that this one wasn’t going to disappoint, Goro wasn’t taking any bullshit.

Were they testing him? Seeing if he could _truly_ handle any curveball thrown his way? Did they expect _him_ to handle the new kid on the block and see if he’d fall to his demise because of him? Goro was by no means an overthinker (a lie that he liked to tell himself) but this was something else.

And then, another thought came to mind.

Were they going to replace him with the new dancer?

No, _no_ , that was preposterous. Goro had only been with the club for a mere _three years_ , and he was at the prime of his career. He was still young, still only twenty-three, and _he_ was the one that brought big bucks to the club’s finances. There was no _possible_ way this _rookie_ could ever replace him in such a short amount of time.

He was just some beginner aerialist that came from The Velvet Room’s other branches in Japan. He wasn’t going to replace the name _Rapunzel_ , there was no _fucking_ way.

Making his way to the streets of Shibuya, he’d repeat it like a mantra within his head.

_There’s no **way**.. _

Sports bag hanging off his shoulder, with the ten-am hustle and bustle of Tokyo humming with life around him, he’d only focus on the music blaring from his headphones.

Shibuya Crosswalk, as always, buzzed with all the lights and advertisements surrounding it. It was more often than not that the biggest (and most popular, for some reason) crosswalk in Tokyo flooded with people scattering about; Trying to get to their destinations, with just some here and there looking lost and aimless as they trudged through, and sometimes, there’d be the occasional group, too. Caught up with his eyes on the prize, Goro never really paid much attention to the life happening around him on the streets— he had plenty to focus on already once he stepped into the spotlight.

His steps were quick once the light turned red, hastily making his way through the white lines painted onto the asphalt like guiding borders. In his ears, the notes of tonight’s performance song lilted—a bass-heavy, sensual thing that promised of things in the dark and hands where they shouldn’t be—and about halfway through, something (or rather, _someone_ ) just about interrupted his mental rundown of the choreography.  
There was a group headed towards where he’d just came, big one of about nine people that talked loudly and without a care for the world around them. Like Goro, they were dressed in what looked to be a mix of sportswear and dancer-wear, all bright reds or pinks among overwhelming black, with hints of an icy blue and lightning yellow here and there. Sweat shined visibly on their foreheads and necks, making locks and ringlets of their hair stick to their skin, and Goro wasn’t really the type to let his eyes linger, so when they’d passed each other, he was on his way to keeping his stare back on the road— when he’d seen _him_.

Black curls, darker than the midnight sky, with a smile that curled in just the _exact_ right way. Through the thick frames perched upon the bridge of the man’s nose, their eyes had caught on each other for too quick a moment— perhaps it lasted for a minute, or a second, or a mere _breath_ , but when Goro was pulled into the depths of endless, obsidian black, he found himself _drowning_.

It took naught but two steps forwards away from each other and the spell was broken— and yet still, Goro, in all the dazed starstruck clouding his head, had forced himself not to look back over his shoulder. He may have been mistaken, but he could _swear_ that something shined within those gems for eyes, gleaming with an interest that Goro was accustomed to, but.. so much more _intense_ , like a primal sort of curiosity tinged with hints of desire like none other.

And gods _dammit_ all, he was definitely not Goro Akechi’s _exact_ type; The kind that was dangerous and suggestive, with confidence that commanded respect; Who had a handsome face hidden beneath the guise of _plain-looking_ , that turned heads with but the slightest half-lidding of his eyes; Who looked like he revelled in the dark and was the exact thing that went bump in the night, with a charming smile and ripped abs to boot.

He was projecting, he knew that, but..

 _He looks familiar_..

Goro just couldn’t believe he’d ever forget a face like _that_.

It was all he thought of as he made the rest of the trek to the studio.

Within, the receptionist had greeted him with the usual cheer and smile, a routine _“hello”_ and _“good morning”_ exchanged between them as Goro passed by her. Making a beeline for the changing rooms, he’d all but peeled his street clothes off as fast as he could, was even quicker to slip into the comfortable tightness of white spandex that hugged his muscles, all before padding towards his usual practise room with his bag in one hand and his headphones around his neck.

From there, just as the door clicked to a close behind him, it was like falling into the motions of his everyday life.

He was giddy sprinting down the small steps to the main floor, a thing of polished, oaken hardwood that almost shone with the varnish. Beside the mirrors, he made quick work to set his bag down, slip his phone out from inside, before connecting it through to the sound system in the studio.

Once the first note of his playlist began, it was like being plunged into a sea of music and sensuality.

Goro began every practise session with a warm-up, little exercises that made the blood flow into his muscles and make them pulse with the exertion. For a bit, he’d done the usual—leg lifts, jumping jacks, squats and lunges, and finally, a minute-long plank—before heading into his stretches. Among his reflection, the edges of the mirrors had shone with lights tucked beneath, illuminating the pristine, white walls around him— and that, in particular, was a sort of thing that brought him even deeper into the zone than anything else.

They reminded him of the lights flashing in his eyes when it came to the real thing.

But ah, he could save that excitement for just a few more hours. He had a routine to practise first, refine his movements the most he could before shining up above.

It was only when he’d turned to face the silks dangling from the bars above did he notice _it_ , though.

Usually, at the time he had the studio for himself, there was only Rapunzel’s signature gold hanging from the middle hook in the midst of the room, lonesome and almost glittering amidst the lights. He was curious as he approached his silk, hands finding the cloth easily even as his stare still snagged on the brilliant red beside it.  
Unlike the hammock tie of his silk for tonight’s performance, the red flowed loosely among the room, a long, crimson line that cut through the studio’s clean white. It hadn’t reached the floor, but Goro could imagine the bright carmine pooling onto the hardwood like spilled wine— because Goro has worked with red silks before, but never quite this _intense_ , this _vibrant_ ; smooth even if judging only by the sight of it.

But no matter. He’d already pressed play on the song, and he simply didn’t have the time to wonder which idiot forgot their silk when it was _his_ turn at the practise room.

Rapunzel’s performance that night was on an aerial hammock, filled with spins and tricks that involved a Hell of a lot of spreading his legs mid-air. Within his head, he’d counted the beats, a steady _one, two, three four_ before his hands grasped onto the golden silk. He held onto the fabric, pulled himself up, _up_ , as he spun— and all the while, the first of the few lyrics echoed around his ears, reverberating around the tall walls of the studio.

_“You remember— You remember my love.”_

It was a bass-heavy song, each note filled with sin and desire. While not much lyrical, each string plucked off the bass told of late nights and things hushed in the dark, each low synth like a chill up his skin that left goosebumps in their wake. With the progression, Goro moved into his different poses, pulling his legs either to the back or the side of his head with the grace of a trained dancer, all before letting his movements blend into the next part of his choreography.

_“You sold your soul for— You sold your soul for that drug.”_

As he danced, his eyes remained closed, sliding shut the moment he’d gotten himself off the ground. With no lights or walls or reflections to distract him, the music humming into his ears became his entire world— and with each melody flowing around him, his body was compelled to do what it did best.

Dance, enticing and sensual in every movement.

_“Still hooking over— Still hooking over and die.”_

The familiar burn of exertion singed into his muscles just as he’d gotten halfway through, what with all the work his body was doing keeping him graceful and upright on the silk. Swinging down now, with his silk looping around his shoulder-blades and under his arms, his head faced the ceiling and his hands grasped onto both feet, contorting into a split with his back leg bent to almost touch his head.

_“Our love is burnt—”_

Just as he’d manoeuvred himself to settle between the silk, though—

_Creak_

_“—Our love is burnt in the sun.”_

The door opened.

“Hey, I’m _busy_ here—!”

His eyes snapped open, ass sat upon the fabric with loops coiling around his thigh and foot, hands grasped onto the silk being the only things that kept him from falling off the edge. From his position, he couldn’t quite twist his head enough to look upon the intruder, but even among the music, he could still hear their footsteps padding down the steps—slow, steady, almost _villainous_ with how confident they sounded—onto the hardwood floor and then, finally, into Goro’s line of sight.

_God hates me._

“I heard, yeah,” the intruder chuckled, and by _God_ , Goro didn’t expect that voice to be so _deep_ , coming from a face that held such soft features.

But maybe that was just exactly his thing; To be a man of contradictions and things hidden beneath his mask— Because Goro could _swear_ that the glint shining upon the man’s eyes earlier couldn’t have been anything else but _recognition._

The only questions were: What the _Hell_ was he doing here and which God thought it was funny to guide the cute stranger walking down the street into Goro’s studio?

Actually, just one, entirely different question plagued him then.

“Who the Hell are _you_?”

Goro didn’t bother hiding the irritation from his voice, concentration broken as he sat just feet above the ground. He watched the man stride to one of the levers on the wall, pulling it down easily, like it was something he’d done time and time again. On command, the hook next to Goro’s dislodged itself, chains rattling quietly as it lowered— the crimson red silk pooling to the floor now.

“Oh, don’t mind me,” he’d snickered, and even from there, Goro could see his shoulders rise and fall with each laugh dripping off his lips, carefree and _mischievous_ , “Just coming back to get my silk.”

_“Coming back”? What the—_

Subconsciously (or maybe not) his hands squeezed the golden silk _tighter_.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

And in that one second—

“I don’t need to.”

Their eyes caught on each other, and this time, there were no thick frames getting between obsidian black, clashing with Bordeaux red.

“You already know who I am— like I know who _you_ are, Rapunzel.”

Like _that_ helped. Everyone in this damn studio knew who he was. It was only the fact that Goro hadn’t seen _this_ face before among _these_ walls that had him pouncing onto his first guess.

“A Joker, aren’t you?” he tried, eyes squinted as the man stepped forwards until he’d come to level with the hook bearing his silk, “Oh, _joy_.”

Chuckling, though, the other man merely placed his hands onto the knot that kept his silks on the hook— only a single glance spared onto Goro’s frame.

“ _Ding, ding, ding_. We got a winner.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

And again, that laughter blended amongst Goro’s music. If Goro wasn’t so annoyed, maybe he’d realise that he was already getting hooked on the sound; So melodic and velvety, fitting for his stage name.

But that thought could jump out the window entirely.  
_Sure_ , this man was cute; And _okay_ , Goro could admit that he had an allure to him that had Goro looking; But Hell was going to freeze over sooner than Goro actually telling himself that he was running his eyes over Joker’s body up and down— that they’d wandered as Joker undid the silks that were apparently his, deep red like overflowing desire made tangible.

_It suits him.._

Wait.

Wait, _fuck_ to the _no_.

He was _not_ going to do this.

As if the thought had finally caught up with his body, Goro turned his head away— much too abrupt for it to be taken casually.

“ _Well_! I’ll leave you to it then.”

Too quickly (too _soon_ ) though, Joker’s voice once more rang in his ears, Goro finding himself looking down upon the sight of bright red balled up in the man’s arms. Pointedly, he could only choose to ignore the _“already?”_ that jumped to the forefront of his brain, just _teased_ at his tongue.

Instead, he’d all but settled on a curt hum and his arms crossed.

Goro definitely did _not_ want to look Joker over more— did _not_ , for a single _millisecond_ , think that he’d had his fill of the man just _yet_.

That was ridiculous.

“I’ll see you tomorrow for our first-ever practise, Rapunzel!” Joker called out, already up the flight of stairs and to the door. He hadn’t spared Goro another glance as one hand made for the doorknob— just until he was one foot out the exit, anyway, because this was the moment he’d solidified himself as a pain in Goro Akechi’s ass.

“ _Oh_ , and—” Joker had blurted, almost as if he played at forgetting something. With a look over his shoulder and that smile once more pinned up his cheeks, he’d leave with a final, “Rapunzel, Rapunzel..”

_Don’t you dare finish that, asshole._

“.. Let down your hair.”

Hardy _fucking_ har— like Goro hadn’t heard that line a million and one times already.

“Maybe you’ll get something nice if you let me into your tower.”

He finished it off with a wink, lips tugging up just ever so slightly wider in that shit-eating grin that Goro already hated.

_Click_

And with that, had left. Joker was no longer in the studio, but Goro had the _strong_ urge to throw something at him.

Who did he think he was? He was as much of a nobody that Goro expected him to be, handsome face and charismatic air be _damned_ to _Hell_.  
Joker could fuck off with his brilliant red silks and casual smirk; Those damned dark eyes and the voice that was almost too-deep and velvety for his features; The way he strode casual and yet graceful; The words he’d all but spun Goro around his little finger with.

Jesus Christ.

He was going to rain Hell upon that man come the next day, and _then_ he’ll see how Joker liked it.

 _Oh_ , how far that thought would go (and how much his own words would twist in meaning) in but two, _long_ months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to a new world.


	2. Ｉ

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [I'm betting on your grace, darling.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dJW1UBS3DHI&list=PLkNa30I_jAe3A4hUDnkmROKZsYrse3bnO&index=2&ab_channel=SteLouseVEVO)

What was happening?

Saying that _consciousness_ was the first thing that came to him could’ve been, in a word, _wrong_ ; because to say that he even knew when he became aware of the world’s existence bleeding into him was a stretch enough as it was.  
As a matter of fact, _consciousness_ could’ve been the tenth, or the twentieth, or even the _fiftieth_ thing to float past a familiar (and yet, at the same time, _unfathomable_ ) haze settled firmly within his brain, and Goro Akechi wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.

He was awake, that much he was (vaguely) aware of, at least— and he’d opened his eyes already, was staring up at too-bright lights and stark white ceilings belonging to a room he couldn’t, for the life of him, recognise— it was just that the recollection of when _exactly_ he’d began doing all those things was less than a blur in the gaps of his memory. For one, he didn’t know how the Hell he managed to pass out from just another normal work night through to morning; For another, where the fuck _was_ he?

What day was it? How long had he been drifting amongst clouds of pleasant dreams and too-twisted nightmares? Something squirming within Goro’s core told him that it hadn’t only been a mere few hours since he fell amidst the comfort of unconsciousness— an unpleasant indication that came to him in the form of a Sahara-dryness on his tongue, the faint rumble of his weakened stomach protesting for something to _eat_.

Shifting his gaze to the right, a single glance out the cracks between thin blinds told him that it was possibly close to noon already, only the barest hints of daylight peeking through oncoming storm clouds. The scenery from outside, he could _barely_ even recognise, but that wasn’t the worst of it.

Why did he feel _exposed_?

He could tell there was _something_ draped over his form (flimsy and too light to be of any real clothing) and that there was a heavy thing laying from his stomach down to the tips of his toes— but why did he feel so.. _vulnerable_.. in a way unlike any he’d ever felt before?  
With Goro’s job, there was no such thing as being _covered_ , so to say, and it more than meant that he’d been exposed to far too many ways to feel vulnerable than probably the average person in all his years working at The Velvet Room. To feel an unfamiliar and uneasy vulnerability now.. That was something else, something _strange_.

Something unknown and uncomfortable.

_Wait._

Where the _fuck_ was Akira?

_BAM_

_BAM_

_BAM_

In the midst of budding panic, a constant banging ripped him straight from the depths of his brain— what shallow waters he could still reach in all the drowsiness and fatigue that clung to him like a parasite. He laid there, barely feeling anything and everything at once, with a noise he didn’t even know the source of to make his day just _that_ much shittier.

There was no telling where was _up_ or _down_ — something that didn’t feel _right_ considering Goro spent as much of his day upside-down as he was right side-up. His head spun and, at the same time, there was a hammer having a fun time pounding away inside his skull in too many places at once. His bones felt heavy and his muscles felt as if they weighed a tonne each, and even the simple act of pushing the covers off of his body took more than the little energy he found within himself.

_BAM_

_BAM_

Gods, what _was_ that? Every sense felt both sharpened to a point and blocked between thick rubber. What the Hell did Goro even take last night to give him _this_ bad of a hangover?

_BAM_

_BAM_

_BAM_

Was that the drill having a joyride behind his eyes? The hangover of one _Hell_ of a bad night giving him just one more thing lingering in his body to feel _dirty_ about?

_BAM_

_BAM_

Was it the rain pelting against the glass windows? He was aware of the storm taking Tokyo under siege, at least: weather that reflected how he felt both physically _and_ mentally.

God was laughing at him. He just _knew_ it.

_BAM_

_BAM_

_BAM_

Or was it that door of the room he laid in? The room that he had no idea who it even _belonged_ to, much less had any real idea where (or _what_ ) it was?

_“Mister Akechi!”_

If Goro’s brain was playing nice, then that wasn’t someone he should recognise.. he thought, anyway.

_“I’m from the TMPD!”_

Oh.

_“I’d like to ask you some questions!”_

_Oh **shit**. _

What, in the ever-loving _fuck_ , happened last night?

Frankly, he wasn’t quite sure what to do in that moment; His body felt like it was completely and utterly made out of heavy steel instead of flesh and bones, unable to move with what little strength still remained in himself. The world spun around him as much as it slowly bled into him, and he was but the lone soul inside a room of pristine whites and the smell of bleach that slowly, just _gradually_ , pierced through his senses.

His memory of the night prior (or the past few _days_ previous?) was but a chapter in the book of his life highlighted in permanent black ink, and Akira was nowhere to be seen— if the other man could even fill him in on the details, or if he was in the exact same state Goro found himself in _somewhere_.

It wouldn’t be the first time that happened: It seemed whenever Goro was hungover, Akira’d come stumbling into his place just _begging_ to be coddled with the exact same migraine, the same headache, the same nausea that had Goro’s carpets twice as dirty as they’d normally be— but as pleasant as those memories were, the mere thought of it sent Goro spiralling back into reality.

Where was Akira Kurusu? Where was he with all his promises and words? His feather-light touches and the soothing baritone of his voice?

Where was he, when Goro needed him _most_?

The door screeched open before he could delve even deeper within the anxiety brewing in his stomach, his body almost acting on instinct when he was turned towards the window one second, and looked into an unfamiliar face the next— albeit with some features that more than didn’t sit right with him, only adding onto the pile of things that reminded him of his panic.

Black waves sitting atop his head. Black eyes that pierced.

He looked like Akira.

“Your attending nurse told us you were waking up,” the man (presumably, the same officer _banging_ on his door) had begun, hands up and tone soft, _careful_ , almost giving Goro whiplash with the contrast between the look in his eyes and the gentleness in his voice, “Sorry if the knocking made it unpleasant.”

 _That_ blasted noise was _knocking_?

“But my name is Junji Nakamura. I’m one of the investigators working on your case.”

What was it that gave him enough strength to push himself up, he wondered? What was it that made him shoot up (as much as he _could_ shoot up) in his state, despite immediately regretting it once the world began to fall out-of-balance around him? It could’ve been the slap in the face that was his _“case”_ because Goro sure as Hell couldn’t put a name on it otherwise— but maybe, just perhaps, he would’ve used _desperation_.

What happened to him on the night of his and Joker’s joint performance? And how did he end up like _this_? They were the questions that muddled his brain, pounded alongside the migraine, the confusion from which must’ve been written all over his face— because right as the officer had found a chair and pulled it up to the bed, he’d began speaking once more after sitting down.

“For starters.. Mister Akechi, do you know what day it is?”

Something within Goro pounced at the thought, the words already forming on the tip of his tongue— but that was until some rational part of his brain _stopped_ himself.

Because the thing _was_ , it _should’ve_ been the 21st of November that day, because the big night was supposed to be on the _20th_ ; The thing was, it was supposed to be like any ordinary work night, because that was just how rigid the routine of Goro’s life was; But then again, judging by the too-cold chill in the air and the weather past the windows, it couldn’t have been November anymore.  
What he just couldn’t shake off was that it _should’ve been_ November: It should’ve been the 21st and Goro should’ve been getting his things together already, start a day that was just _slightly_ different from the routine his life had comfortably fitted into for these past three years. He should’ve been at his condo, buried under thick comforters and beside a body that had a too-familiar mould against his own. He should’ve been tired but not absolutely _exhausted_ , not like there were chains strapped around his wrists and his ankles, weighing him down with a fatigue that he’d never, in his twenty-three years, ever felt before.

He should’ve been right beside Akira Kurusu, because that was where each of them belonged— _With each other_.

So where was he?

Where was Akira?

The only thing that made Goro resurface back to the present was a _something_ placed upon his hand, his eyes refocusing back on black hair that was just _slightly_ less curly, black irises that weren’t _as_ dark like obsidian gems. Shifting his gaze down, Goro only caught the sight of the officer’s hand laid gently upon his own for a split-second, before Nakamura had withdrawn it back to his side. It was then that he noticed the needles stuck into his skin, clear liquid being fed into his system through thin tubes that led up, _up_ , until Goro caught the IV bag hanging above his head.

Actually, he’d never noticed the screens and machines placed against the wall beside the bed until then; He was in a hospital?

“Mister Akechi,” the officer gulped, leaning just ever so slightly closer now, his voice just a tad bit louder, “Can you answer the question, please?”

 _Right_..

“It’s..”

One hand shot up to his neck, instinctual as he felt it tighten its hold. The muscles within his throat felt as if they lined with sandpaper, scratchy enough to make him start coughing with an oncoming internal itch born from a _single_ word spoken. In a second, the officer handed him a glass of water from _God knows where_ , but Goro wasn’t complaining. He’d already pressed the rim to his lips and tipped his head back, gulping down the contents of the glass in a minute.

Once the glass had been emptied and set back onto a nightstand Goro hadn’t noticed before (which was, again, strange— Goro wasn’t _usually_ this scatter-brained) he’d locked eyes with Nakamura— a plead beheld within his own.

“It’s alright—” Nakamura shook his head. “Take it slow, Mister Akechi.”

“It’s..” he tried again, too stubborn for his own good, the simple act of finding his own damn voice a pain more than anything, “It’s.. N-November.. _November 21_.”

With the troubled look seeping within the officer’s eyes (less like a slap of realisation, more like a slow dread creeping up on him) Goro knew he was dead wrong.

Nakamura sat just a bit straighter up then, a hand reaching into his bag to pull out a small notebook and a pen, as well as a recorder. Goro, in turn, could do naught but watch, his brows pressed down and his lips set in a tight, wavering line, as the officer stared down onto the pages he flipped— all before he spoke up once more, his words heavy with a weight carried only by bearers of bad news.

“It’s December the fifth,” he began, and Goro could tell that he strained to push the words out— if not because of a too-dry throat, then because of the turmoil seeded deep within his eyes, “You’ve been in a coma for the past two weeks.. Ever since you were found inside The Velvet Room.”

With a cough, Nakamura glanced up at him for all but a split-second, before his pen clicked and another page was turned. In that one, millisecond moment, Goro had just about caught all that he needed for the fear to start writhing around inside his stomach— much stronger (more _potent_ ) than before.

He thought that maybe it was the nausea (the _need_ to vomit stuck like a pressure boiling inside his core) but Goro wasn’t paying much attention to that anymore; Not when Nakamura’s voice reached his ears once again.

Goro _needed_ to know what happened. Wrack as he might at the blank and blurry slate of his brain, he had a feeling the memories wouldn’t come so easily— As was the life he’d submitted himself into, but..

“On the night of the 20th, you were going to perform at The Velvet Room.”

That was a given. Goro could remember _that_ much, at least. Tapping his pen upon the page now, Nakamura kept his eyes upon the notebook— even if there was _something_ in the way his fingers moved that suggested something that Goro should’ve been afraid of.

And that, he was.

“But you were going to be performing with a partner, correct?”

Goro nodded, a bob of his chin too fast and eager for his head to agree. He closed his eyes as if it would stave away at the pounding within his head. It lasted for but a moment, for relief wouldn’t come so easily— and he had a creeping hunch that it wouldn’t come so soon, either.

“To be straight with you, Mister Akechi..” Nakamura sighed, weighed heavy with conscience as he finally letting his eyes linger on Goro— and Goro could just _see_ the bags weighed under them, dark circles that told of countless late nights and a consciousness that could only be burdened with so much, “I need you to tell me your account of him. I can’t exactly disclose _why_ , but the police have been waiting for you to wake up for this exact reason.”

“About..” he croaked, his voice still raspy with the dryness of his throat, even despite the water he’d downed in record time, “ _Akira_..?”

And gravely, the officer could only bob his head in a silent _“yes”_.

“ _Please_. Your record of him is the most important one out of every person we’ve tried to talk to. You were reported to be the closest to him in the time since he arrived in Tokyo.”

_But.._

“Where is he?”

Truth be told, Goro didn’t know what gave him the strength to utter that one question, with as much firmness as there was in his tone. Though his head spun, and the world was but a carousel ride that went on and on around him; though he had no idea what sent him into a _coma_ for two weeks, and he wasn’t entirely sure if he could trust this person; and though he, frankly, couldn’t even move his own body too much—had lost control of the _one_ thing he believed he had full domain over—he still _had_ to know.

Call it desperation.

Or a deep desire to fill in the blanks.

But if Goro could give a fuck about anything right now, then it was where Akira Kurusu was.

With his brows furrowed, and his face painted in nothing but the colours of turmoil, Nakamura did nothing but flip to a new page, place his pen upon the top, and look into Goro’s eyes.  
And the way that that sharp and dark gaze pierced through Goro’s stare, and the way that his lips had tugged down into a frown (seemingly of their own accord), could pin Goro in place with the _fear_ it sent racing up his spine. For a second that felt as if it lasted an eternity, Nakamura stared at Goro, and the more he did, the more Goro could start picking apart the flecks of emotions riddling his eyes.

Desperation.

Exhaustion.

 _Fear_.

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”

And that, perhaps, was the final straw that broke the camel’s back.

But unlike all the previous times, there was no quick and sudden drop—no curling up into a ball and bawling his eyes out, yelling, kicking, and crying in pure, unfiltered _rage_ the entire time—instead, there was but a single _blink_.  
There was only a slow exhale out, a slight widen of his eyes. There was a part of his lips, the slack of his jaw. There was a series of things clicking far too fast in his brain for the state that he sat in now, and there was the way Goro found himself looking down upon his lap, with no recollection of when he’d turned his head and _dropped_.

“I know this must be hard for you, Mister Akechi..” Nakamura had mumbled, the words reaching his ears but never permeating to his head, “But the sooner we get all the pieces, the sooner we’ll be able to find him.”

Goro wasn’t quite sure when his lips had formed the word, but he could at least register how he bobbed his head into a single nod.

“Alright.”

The sound of scribbling, and then a _click_ , brought his eyes back to the officer.

“Please start with the basics. Your relationship of him, your time working together.”

God, where could he even start?

“Tell me everything you can remember, from the _very_ beginning, about Akira Kurusu.”

* * *

_Tap_

_Tap_

_Tap_

_Tap_

Three things:

One, Goro Akechi was still just a _tad_ bit hungover from last night.

Two, he should’ve brought more coffee.

Three, Joker was absolutely _late_.

Now, don’t get him wrong; He already had below zero expectations about the man in question (that he’d have to _work with_ for two months, of all things) but courtesy, at least, called for one’s student to be _on time_ if not early. Goro wasn’t quite known for his patience, because truth be told, he was more infamous as a snippy little bitch when he was annoyed.

And by _God_ , was Goro _annoyed_.

It was the mixture of nausea and a pounding in his head that set it off that morning ( _God_ , he should lay off the drugs, but he had to do what he had to do) and living Goro’s life, he learned to shut the fuck up and just _take it_ and move on with his day— and that, he could do. He could do that _really_ well three years into the grind.  
What he _couldn’t_ do was his day being slowed down by a fucking asshole that had the _gall_ to look at Goro the way he did, say the words he said. Goro could start seething at just the thought of those dark, steely eyes, slanted and catlike and _sharp_ — just undressing Goro because god fucking dammit, that was how _everyone_ looked at Goro.

There was just something _off_ about the way that Joker did it, something that poked and prodded at him to the point that Goro wanted to punch Joker. _That_ was what got him feeling so bitchy in the morning.

And don’t even get him started on the man’s smile— pink lips curled up in just the most _aggravating_ (read: _delicious_ ) way. Paired with his eyes and the lithe, strong frame he carried so smoothly, and Goro was just about ready to throw something at the wall to get his anger out.

Glancing at the wall clock beside the door, the hands read _12:06_.

It’d been _six minutes_ into the time he was allotted the studio. Six minutes and counting. Six minutes and just less than three more hours to go of Goro’s time.

_Asshole.._

He _really_ should’ve brought more coffee.

“Good morning!”

And speak of the Devil, he shall come.

Goro stayed where he leaned against the mirrors, back-to-back with his reflection and arms crossed over his chest. There was a passing thought in him to spare Joker all but a glance (a _glare_ like Hellfire, more like), but lest anyone would forget, Goro was a snippy bitch and goddammit if he wasn’t going to act on his spite.

“You’re late.”

“No, _no_ , love,” the man chuckled, a single wink sent Goro’s way, “You’re early.”

This man was going to be the death of him, he just _knew_ it.

He could hear Joker start to approach him, down the stairs and onto the floor. Like any dancer, his steps were light, almost _silent_ , and if Goro thought he resembled a cat before, then the way he (so _effortlessly_ ) slinked over and glided his way to him only solidified the fact.

Upon pushing his back off the glass, though, he watched as Joker’s eyes shot up to the hooks above them— sports bag hanging off of his shoulder, with more of those black clothes that hugged his legs and hung off his torso. Goro only had little bits and pieces of a hint to know that they hid the muscles beneath each, dark layer, but Hell if he was going to start letting them run through his thoughts when the need never came for it.

“You haven’t put your silks up yet,” the man remarked, tone matter-of-factly, before he looked back at Goro with a grin pulled up his cheeks, “You were waiting for me? I’m flattered.”

It was only just past noon. It was only _just past **noon**_. Goro already felt like he was going to burst.

To Joker’s smile (that smile that showed his teeth, the corners of his lips tugged tight and curled up easily) Goro could only scoff. He nodded at his own bag deserted next to the wall, gesturing along to it with a single hand as he strode over to the sound system.

“We don’t even have choreography to practise yet, let alone a _song_.” He huffed, producing his phone from his pocket. Around them, a single _beep_ indicated that it’d connected to the speakers, Goro looking down upon the screen as he scrolled through his music.

“I was _hoping_ that we would’ve picked one by now, but considering that _you_ , Joker, decided to waste that time by being _late_ ”—oh, how petty it was that he kept emphasising that, but Joker could go fuck himself for all Goro cared—“Then we still have to do that instead of making the most of the hours we have the studio for.”

A single laugh lilted into his ears, Goro’s head snapping at an almost too-fast speed towards the other man— who’d set his bag down on the floor right beside Goro’s, shirt off and shoes placed beside it neatly.

By _god_ , he expected Joker to be _strong_ but not—

_Stop it._

“ _Relax,_ we have like— two months.”

He was _not_ going to start thinking of that _imbecile_ ’s body when it didn’t have to do with their performance, so help him.

“We _only_ have two months,” Goro corrected, all quick, cutting words and sharper teeth.

But before he knew it, Joker had stepped closer to him, smile on those damned lips never wavering. He came to a stop at just a _too_ -close spot beside Goro, and like that, he could _feel_ Joker’s breath on his neck, body heat radiating from his bared chest, and so only made to step a pace further away.

“You really need to loosen up, y’know that?”

 _“Personal space_ , _”_ his eyes warned, an open glare that couldn’t have meant anything else.

Joker only replaced himself right where he was, peering over Goro’s shoulder, head just a centimetre apart from his own.

 _Asshole._ _Cocky **bitch**. Egotistical little— _

“You choreograph everything you perform, huh?” the man murmured, more a statement than a question, with just _something_ lilting off of his deep, velvety baritone. Goro, in that moment, decided that he _hated_ it— as much as the goosebumps creeping up his neck told otherwise. “That’s impressive.”

“That’s already a _given_ ,” Goro shot back, an edge to his voice that had Joker chuckling quietly once more, “I dance what I want to dance. No one could make choreography that could show what _I_ want to show except for _me_.”

For a bit, Goro could feel eyes on him.  
Though he already felt the tell-tale chill of someone watching him— _Joker_ watching him—there was just the slightest shift of his muscles tensing at that _precise_ moment. It went from his phone, to his hand, up his arm, until he just _knew_ that those twin voids settled on the side of his face. Close as they were, Goro could _feel_ the stare trained on him, _studying_ him, up until the pressure lifted as Joker pulled back— footfalls signalling that he’d stepped away from Goro.

Not far, but also not _as_ close as before. Goro could finally breathe— if only because he seemingly forgot how to, just for those few, fleeting seconds.

Turning to look over to the other man (like chasing the sight of Joker, his _presence_ ) Goro found himself the receiving end of a focused, _deep_ stare.

It lasted for but a split-second, but Goro could swear that he’d seen something in those obsidian gems for eyes—something that wasn’t anything akin to cockiness or lust, those which he’d branded as a permanent feature on Joker—because instead, there was something like a specific type of warmth; A specific kind of _awe_ , almost; A specific _light_ that lasted for those few milliseconds, before it was gone. When he stared straight back at Joker, the other man had already settled the egotistical, mischievous mask of himself back onto his eyes.

But Goro wasn’t blind: It wasn’t a trick of the light.

 _What are you playing at.._

“If that’s the case..” Joker began again, his tone like the finest whiskey— a rasp, a husk, low and yet smooth, “Then we’re going to be dancing to a dance that has what we _both_ want to show. Is that right?”

But instead of letting himself linger on Joker more (absolutely _refusing_ to drink in more of this man’s broad shoulders and piercing, black eyes) Goro averted his gaze to instead stare back down at his phone, a single nod bobbing from his chin.

“That’s right.”

All before the device was plucked straight from his hands, a sound of protest already forming on his tongue before—

“Then I think I have the perfect song for us.”

* * *

_“You remember— You remember my love.”_

There were perks to being the best dancer in The Velvet Room.

_“You sold your soul for— You sold your soul for that drug.”_

For one, he didn’t have to work as many nights.

_“Still hooking over— Still hooking over and die.”_

For another, he still got more money than anyone there from _just_ tips.

_“Our love is burnt—”_

But there _were_ downsides, as with any job.

_“Our love is burnt in the sun.”_

Goro was just glad that he was too drugged out of it to feel them.

Though his performance on-stage lasted for but a few, fleeting minutes, that didn’t mean the night was already done with him. It was laughably-naïve to even _think_ that The Velvet Room was done chewing him up and spitting him out with _just_ leers and catcalls as he danced in the air— Oh _no,_ that was only the beginning. _Only_ dancing was too _easy_. He always had the option to leave early, yes— but who wanted to slink back into their house feeling empty and cold among such glamour and alcohol?

Who wanted to be sober in a city like Tokyo?

During his time working in the club, Goro’s been fed and injected with just about every cocktail combination of drugs that existed on the market— all premium, high quality, _pure_ shit. The kind of shit that was like a punch to the face each and every single time, stronger than the last, with the effects seeping into his brain in what felt like an instant.  
It was what came with being under such a blinding spotlight—to be _wanted_ and _desired_ with a thirst like none other—and readily, he accepted it. After all, it made the sex better while also numbing his brain to everything happening, and to be loved in the ways of the flesh was _always_ a bliss.

When it came from hands dirtied with blood and money and power, though? It was the most disgusting experience Goro wouldn’t dare impart upon even his worst enemies.

But that was life. That was _his_ life. And if he had any control with what came with it, then it was how shitfaced he could get off of alcohol and drugs— those that often went into him in one, straight shot before the clothes came flying off.

“ _Ngh_.. Fuck..”

Who was to say what time it was? All Goro really needed to know was that it was ass o’clock in the late hours of night, and that he’s cycled through all three of his usual “cocktails” about twice already. All he knew was that his skin was bared and yet free of marks, as per the rules—one of which emphasised not damaging the _merchandise_ —and that sweat slicked every part of his body. All he _knew_ , right in that moment, were nothing but the words “ _yes_ ” and _“please_ ”.

Because he was finished _dancing_ already; Now was the time to _perform_.

If he were to be honest, he had no idea how many tablets he’s swallowed by that point (washed down with the salty, bitter taste of _cum_ , of course) but even stark naked, it was too _hot_. Ecstasy often made one’s body swelter and warm as if standing in the midst of flames, but to be a dancer meant _always_ feeling just a tad too sweaty, just a _bit_ too hot— so if Goro ever had to put a name to it, he’d say the combination of MDMA and sex was like bathing in molten gold.

It was overwhelming and all-encompassing pleasure at each touch of skin, paired with the heat of the summer’s Sun glaring down on him— and yet still left him feeling like he was worth all the money and all the lights, all the golden, pretty things he’d been decorated with as per his stage name.

Pressed to the mattress, his legs laid on either side of his head, different, decadent jingles ringing beneath wet slap after wet slap with each movement made. The other’s wrists had wrapped around his ankles and held them next to his ears, leaving all the golden bangles he wore to slide down to his calves, the jewellery hanging off Goro’s neck and wrists clanging against each other. This was all in the midst of his hole squelching with sinful intents and obscene slaps, with a cock ramming in and out of his ass and the symphony of moans that dripped off of his lips. He wasn’t quite sure what round they were on, but considering that the buzz he’d once felt at but a _touch_ had been wearing off, he could only shoot his shot and guess their time was almost up— two million yen, for four hours with The Velvet Room’s most prized darling.

He didn’t need to work so much, honestly. If Goro was anything, he was drowning in too much money than he knew what to do with— but there was always a hole that needed to be filled lingering at _some_ points in his body (other than his gaping, twitchy asshole, dripping with cum and begging for more) and where else was a better place to fill that void than The Velvet Room?  
He couldn’t always put a name on it, but called the yearning _entertainment_ all the same. With too much cash and too much free time, there really wasn’t anything else he could do given his life and lack of close friends. Sex and the silks were all he had— aside from strong muscles and a captivating body, but that was beside the point.

“ _Ngh—_ AH!”

Though the club itself was located near the top of a skyrise smack in the middle of Minato City, the rest of the floors upwards were filled with empty rooms and luxurious beds of velvet and silk. Only the most precious of dolls had rooms dedicated to them, but at its core, it really wasn’t much different from any other brothel in the red-light district of Shinjuku.  
Rapunzel’s room, like in the tales of old, was at the tippy-top of the tower. Its walls were a pristine white, deep Bordeaux boards affixed on some that were screwed in with different hooks and loops made of gold. At the corners were tall, glass vases filled with roses and ribbons; at one side, a stocked bar; at another, a row of shelves that hung from the ceiling with golden chains, on which were Rapunzel’s choice toys— collars, restraints, gags, vibrators that lasted and dildos that no beginner would even _dare_ look at.  
In the very middle of his room, sitting atop a circular platform, was a queen-sized, four-poster bed in dark mahogany, decorated with only the finest silks and velvets: white pillows, red sheets, rose petals that had long fallen to the floor, all of it surrounded by sheer, golden fabric that hung from above in a canopy over him. Perhaps Goro’s favourite feature about his room (aside from the bar where he could get a drink or two in before his next client) was the long glass pane that stretched from floor to ceiling along one wall by his right.

Tokyo, illuminated with all its lights and invitations to the dark, was beautiful at night. The view provided a nice distraction from whichever politician or military man paid enough to get rough and rowdy with him at whatever time— and besides..

“ _Yeah_ — Yeah, you— _ngh_ — close?”

Goro was fond of the dark.

Though the man that’d bought four hours of him _probably_ couldn’t see it (what with the way his room had dimmed whenever the crystal chandelier above his bed wasn’t switched on, red fluorescents around the walls and below the bed’s platform providing the only sources of light) Goro had nodded anyway— frantic bobs of his head as he rocked up and down the sheets, as all his bracelets, necklaces, and bangles jingled and clinked. He’d laid upon his arms, hands spreading his asscheeks open as the man kept his legs up by his head.

Pleasure was such a dizzying thing at times—a kind of headache that Goro’d long gotten used to—and so the rapid in and out of a thick cock pounding his hole became lost amidst the fading buzz of Ecstasy and the view of the city.

He knew the pressure building below his belly was coming to a boiling point—and he knew that the molten gold bubbling between his thighs was close to bursting—but the moment between yelling a name he couldn’t remember, and that in which he’d been reduced to a sobbing, convulsing mess, was blurred the second one bled to the other. All he knew was that his throat felt too-scratchy past its limit, and that the lava of a drug-induced orgasm had waved and crashed over him. He knew he was twitching and that his muscles clenched, hole tightening to milk that big cock for all it was worth, and that he was ( _really_ ) too out of it to discern what was what and which was which.

By the time his client’s _nth_ ejaculation came spilling inside him, Goro’s chest heaved deeply as he tried (keyword being _tried_ ) to regain his breath and tug back any sense of self he had left between being _high_ and being _drunk_. The feeling of flaccid dick pulling out of his used and abused hole was always a mixture of _too sensitive_ and _too numb_ in this state, just near the end of his night, and if Goro was coming down from the high, then it meant this was the last of them.

Once his legs were released, he didn’t make to waste any more time: He sat up, wobbled and zig-zagged on soft, red carpeting all the way to the bar, and tipped his head back to down the single glass of whiskey waiting for him.

Gods knew he needed one for the road after tonight.

There were always pleasant words and generous tips after the fucking was over with, some provocative deals and sweet nothings laced with an underlying venom— but if Goro’d learned anything, then it was how to ignore these pleas of sweet delight, using his words and a well-timed wink to stave them away but still have them coming back. It was a balancing act of being sweet and yet firm, a face he knew how to wear to keep himself afloat. Like in the original tale, the “prince” always _did_ return for Rapunzel, after all— and he was bound to stick to the script.

Without much else exchanged between him and his client (Goro more nodding along and keeping up the act than actually replying,) the man left his room after once more draping that god-awful suit on himself. One finger continued to trace the rim of his glass, free hand holding onto his forehead as he closed his eyes, a jingle here, a _clink_ there—and it was then that he let himself groan a long, pained noise.

Fuck, he needed some water.

He needed a bath, too— if only judging by the feel of hot cum dripping down his thighs.

More than anything, he wanted to get out of this room. The stark whites and bold reds were a pain to look at.

Not long after leaving his glass in the sink, Goro found his way to the connected bathroom at one corner of the place, his steps stumbling and his head still a mess, but _goddammit_ nothing was going to stop him from being rid of the sight of this place already. The shower he’d taken was quick, _hasty_ , and though it did little to clear the lingering haze slowly fading out of his system, he was out in just fifteen minutes flat with the clothes he’d thrown on— free now of the golden shackles dripping with gold and wealth, those which sat inside the bag he left the bathroom with.  
He always made sure to keep a duffel bag of casual wear tucked beside the sink, where he left his costumes and accessories to exchange with a dark hoodie, baggy pants. It made sneaking out the back entrance all the easier, plus the black he’d don wouldn’t bring a second glance to himself just in case any _other_ clients wanted to be his prince for the night.

It was just after one hand retrieved the backpack from underneath his bed did he feel the first _real_ thing to be felt since his time with the silks— albeit it was a surprise followed by a glare.

“What the Hell..” he gritted, one palm flat on the sheets as he picked himself up, eye contact never broken with glassy, black irises, “.. are _you_ doing here?”

Joker, in dark jeans and a zipped-up bomber jacket, gave him nothing but a shrug. Leaning next to the door, his hands stayed within his pockets, one foot against the wall and his gaze never leaving Goro’s either. His stance radiated nonchalance, though Goro could just about tell that he’d practised this enough for it to blend with every other movement he made.

Bitch wasn’t slick, if that was what he thought— made all the more apparent by the easy, nasty expression painted all over his features.

Now, Goro wouldn’t have given a shit—would have gone on his merry damn way out the door and left him in that godforsaken room—if it wasn’t for one, specific thing: the way Joker’s lips tugged up into that ever-sly, ever- _irritating_ grin, teeth exposed and the whole nine yards. Coupled with the way his eyes shined from all the lights beyond Goro’s favourite window, and Goro was considering turning his head away.

If he was a _quitter_ , maybe he would have.

“I was told I should learn everything from you,” came the other’s reply, simple and straight to the point.

Maybe he wasn’t done.

That was the entire reason Goro even stayed by the side of the bed, arms crossed and eyes slanted in what seemed to be a permanent glare in the other man’s presence. As the seconds passed and Joker did naught but stare right back, though..

“That’s _it_?”

Goro didn’t even make a pass at hiding the hardness of his tone, irritation lacing every syllable.

“That’s it,” Joker nodded, voice so even and cheerful and sing-songy that Goro wanted to punch that wicked smile clean off his face. “I mean, I don’t really start working until my debut at our performance, so I wanted to see what you were up to.”

_This fucking piece of.._

Deciding (very pointedly, in fact) to go through his first course of action, Goro merely shook his head and circled the bed, steps quick as he neared the door, put one hand to the knob, and—

“Been busy, huh?”

And before he could even wrench it open and get this night over with already, he found himself stopping.

He found his hand stuck upon the door and he found his steps faltering, sheer willpower being the only thing that kept him from snapping his head towards Joker. If you asked Goro Akechi why it felt like he was frozen on the spot, he ( _really_ ) wouldn’t know what to tell you.  
But there was something in Joker’s voice that got to him, more than usual; There was that falter towards the end of his words; A note out of tune to what Goro heard at a constant just hours earlier. Instead of playful mischief and overly-joyful smiles, there was an underlying sympathy that tinted his voice— and to that, Goro didn’t know how to react. Should he have had the energy, he would’ve asked who this man beside him _was_ , because _Joker_ would never speak like that.

When in doubt, though, he did what he always did— _Escape_.

_Click_

Why did he expect it to be so easy?

He knew that Joker trailed after him not too long after exiting his room, and he _knew_ he didn’t shake the other man off even after using the stairs instead of the elevator before ducking into the performers-only area of the club. Through another elevator (the one opposite the main entrance to The Velvet Room) he found his way down to the back exit of the building— but even then, he could still _feel_ Joker’s eyes on the back of his hood.

That specific kind of _desire_ couldn’t have been from any other pair of eyes, and the way every fine hair at the back of Goro’s neck rose _told_ him that nothing but a Joker tailed behind his slumped-over shuffle home.

Even after making it to the bus station, something squirming within Goro’s core told him that Joker was right there, just a few steps behind him. Joker had _balls_ , he’d give him that— especially after the man himself parked ass on the seat next to Goro’s on his bus to Shibuya, looking as casual and nonchalant as he always did, and yet never really making eye contact with Goro.

Being followed, now that was something he could _handle_.

Being _this_ close?

That was the biggest _don’t_ that Goro had in the book.

“What the Hell do you want from me?”

It came out less elegantly than he would’ve liked (more a low, tired mutter in the form of a groan than a question) but that seemed to be enough for Joker to finally acknowledge whatever the Hell it was he was doing, exactly.

From the corner of his eye (his head turned towards the windows to watch Tokyo pass by, because it was frankly exhausting seeing Joker so much in a single day) he could see the moment those dark irises found his form once more, lingering, like they were once again studying him. They stayed there, for seconds upon seconds, until Goro was convinced that Joker either simply needed somewhere to rest his eyes, or he really _was_ sent to Goro from whatever Devil decided Goro wasn’t suffering _enough_.

Just as he opened his mouth to repeat his question, though, Joker’s voice came to him in a lilting mumble— something strange and uncharacteristic, so much so that Goro, again, wanted to ask if this was _really_ the same Joker he spoke with before.

“To make you feel better.”

And if _that_ was the answer Goro was expecting, then he might as well have won the lottery.

Perhaps that was finally the thing that made him turn his head to look back at Joker—the final tug at either his patience or his exhaustion that he just couldn’t take anymore—because in the next moment, red had met black.

Joker was sitting farther than he thought the man was, an inch or three of space between them.

“We have practise again tomorrow, so..” he tried, the phantom of a smile ghosting upon his lips for but a moment, but a _second_ , before it dropped back down, “I figured I’d try to help you out _tonight_ so you’ll be less cranky _tomorrow_.”

“You followed me around like a lost kitten just for _that_?”

It was almost laughable, if he were to be honest. The nod that trailed after his question almost got him close to smiling, even— albeit it would’ve been incredulous and tired.

Too bad for Joker that first impressions left a strong aftertaste, and Goro still tasted the bitter acid he’d left on his tongue.

Turning to look back out the windows, a sigh slipped from his lips.

“If you want to make me feel better, then leave me alone when we’re not at practise.”

Maybe that was enough to shut Joker up for once: the quiet mutter filled with nothing but exhaustion. Perhaps sensing that Goro was nowhere _near_ the level of energy it took to put up with his shit, Joker hadn’t replied even after minutes of radio silence, and throughout the rest of the bus ride to Shibuya, he kept quiet. Goro was half-glad, half-thankful for it, feeling the slow creep of post-high irritation make way for post-high depression.

It always felt less like tangible sadness on Goro’s end, that. The after-effects (namely, the depression bit) had always been like a dull ache, a pressure felt through thick rubber in Goro’s chest that left him both feeling hollow and feeling _numb_. Call it apathy, or the general tiredness from _everything_ that life threw at him, but he’d settle into a state that wasn’t unlike how he felt when he wasn’t high, dancing, or _both_.

All he wanted was to sleep until the next day’s sun had set, if only to wake up having adapted to this specific sort of emptiness when he opened his eyes.

He spent the rest of the bus ride looking upon all the lights of Tokyo, listening to nothing but the sound of cars driving past and mixed music layered above each other blaring from every late-night shop and street performance. Arriving in front of Shibuya Station, Goro couldn’t ignore the fact that Joker had, once again, followed him off.  
He (they) weaved through the streets, the city never sleeping as per usual. Though it must’ve been close to dawn already, Shibuya still littered with people at the infamous crosswalk, a mass that Goro was well familiar with: office workers, escorts and their clients, hosts, groups that knew the night better than the day. Goro would say that he could relate.

But even through _that_ , the lingering feel of eyes on his back never wavered. Making his way down to a district of tall condominium buildings meant for the rich, there were _still_ footsteps that matched his own, just a few metres behind. Even going into the building of his residence and past the concierge, Joker was _still_ tailing him— Still on his ass, still _following_ him.

This prick really _was_ just a two-faced little bitch going back on his own word, wasn’t he? What did Goro even expect?

Honestly, if Goro had the energy, he would’ve told the man to _fuck off_ already; Instead, he groaned lowly to himself, catching a ride on one of the elevators whose door nearly closed. By Lady Luck’s good graces, Joker couldn’t keep up with him _there_.

Well, at least Joker kept quiet throughout that entire.. _thing_.

What the Hell was Goro thinking; That man was basically _stalking_ him.

Oh, how much the gods hated Goro Akechi.

It wasn’t long before the elevator dinged at his floor, even less before Goro stood before his unit door and was jamming his key into the lock, heavily desperate to get to bed and drift into sleep before the usual noises began. Don’t get him wrong, the first thing he did on the first night it happened was to file a complaint to management about the more _unsavoury_ sounds that began jolting him awake every night starting a few weeks ago— and what happened next?

The answer may (not) surprise you.

Instead of that damned debauched bastard living a floor above him ( _directly above_ Goro’s own unit) shutting up and keeping his dick in his pants, the sounds only became louder. Much, _much_ louder, in fact. Goro’d been planning on throwing a punch to his face the _moment_ he even got anywhere _close_ to Goro’s peripheral. It was only unfortunate that management wouldn’t let him know the name of the _bitch_ living above him, if only for privacy reasons.

But he’d know. The first face that wasn’t familiar around his floor, and he’d _know_. For then, though, it was time for sleep: That was much better than staying up being frustrated at the bed creaks and whatever the _fuck_ his above-floor neighbour was doing to the men and women coming into his unit.

Crashing down onto his bed, he’d all but forgotten about his backpack to the floor. Still, Goro managed to kick off his shoes, proceeding to strip in the dark of his bedroom until he was left in nothing but his underwear, all before crawling under the covers and letting the weighted blankets give him this _one_ instance of comfort before the haze of sleep overcame him.

Sure, it was a just a _tad_ bit strange that his usually-loud neighbour was silent tonight, but Goro wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. He could have _this_ , just _one_ night of complete and utter quiet after the long hours at work and then having to deal with _Joker_ following him— it might’ve been up to his building, sure, but at least he didn’t know on which of the many floors (and which of the many condos) that Goro resided in.

Just as his eyes began to shut closed, though, there was a muffled _ping_ coming from somewhere below him— and Goro would’ve ignored it. He would’ve ignored it just fine until he realised that _ping_ was his ringtone for a call and the other end wasn’t giving up.

_Pi  
Pi  
Pi  
Pi_

He tried to ignore it, he really did.

_Pi  
Pi  
Pi  
Pi_

The other end just _really_ wasn’t giving up.

If Goro’s neighbour wasn’t going to keep him awake, then this damned phone call would.

With a groan, a frustrated yell into his pillow (a curse to every god out there that led him to this point) he’d crawl back to the edge of the bed and reach for his bag, dunking one arm in to fish for his phone amidst the golden silk stuffed within. Taking one look at the screen, a hiss seethed out from his lips at the brightness assaulting his eyes, all before fighting through the glare with one of his own at the number.

 _Unknown Caller_ , the screen read.

What did he have to lose from answering it and yelling at whoever typed in the wrong number? Maybe it’d help take some of the edge off.

“ _WHAT_?!”

And then, a familiar laugh chuckling into his ear.

_“Damn. I should’ve called a little earlier, huh?”_

There, laying on his stomach atop the sheets, Goro felt what was probably a full-body spasm at the sound of _that_ voice coming from _his_ phone.

Was there no end to this Hell? Why was he still on this Earth, to _suffer_?

“How did you—” Goro’s head shook, more of habit than anything. “YOU _FOLLOWED ME HOME_ AND NOW YOU _KNOW MY **FUCKING** NUMBER_?!"

_“Okay— Okay, I **know** this looks bad, but—” _

“Oh, like _YOU_ know how bad this is—” 

The gods hated him.

They _really_ did.

“I thought I told you to _leave me **alone**_.”

_“Well—”_

A small snicker sounded out from the other end of the line, some quiet laughs that revealed, once more, that mischief in Joker’s eyes.

_“Technically, you kinda said that to **Joker** , not..” _

A rough groan ripped straight from Goro’s throat, himself rolling over until he laid on his back and faced the ceiling— albeit closed his eyes with his free hand pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. He didn’t have any more energy to keep being angry, hard as he may try.

“And not _who_?” he hissed, words sharpened to a point and yet lacking the bite, “ _Who_ could I _possibly_ have said that to other than _Joker_?”

_“Akira.”_

There it was.  
The other’s answer had come as simply as that, as calm and composed as all his answers were: a single name spoken in such a straight-shot and even way that Goro, for a bit, found himself stunned into silence.

He didn’t know if it was because he needed confirmation that that _did_ just happen, or if Joker had defied logic so much that Goro needed to backtrack just a _tiny_ little bit, but the reality was he stared up at the ceiling one second and then looked into his screen the next, gaze coloured in nothing but the shades of pure _disbelief_. His brows joined and knitted together upon the surprise, lips parted just the slightest bit, as he did nothing but keep his eyes upon the screen and play _catch up_ in his head.

_“Look, I..”_

The sound of scratching echoed quietly from the other end, a rustle of sheets indicating that Joker’d been in bed and turned. He took the opportunity to speak while Goro could only remain quiet, it seemed, as he wasted no time to continue despite the haphazard waver of his words.

_“I **know** I didn’t exactly give you the best first impression, but..” _

That was an understatement.

Goro let him speak anyway. He’d excuse it with being too tired to hang up from the call himself.

_“I promise I’m not actually **that** big of an asshole.. And I wasn’t lying when I said I wanted— **Want** — to make you feel better, I’m just—” _

A sigh, something long and drawn-out before a _poof_ sounded from Joker’s end. Did he just hit his pillow?

_“I’m bad with words when it’s anything other than jokes. I’m more of a.. An actions speak louder than words kinda guy, I guess..”_

And there was that laugh again— but even Goro could tell that it was weak, a sad excuse of an attempt than anything.

_“So, uhm.. **Yeah**. Sorry. That’s all I wanted to tell you. Goodnight.” _

Before the call ended, just as the words _really_ began seeping into Goro’s head.

That didn’t _just_ happen, did it? That _must’ve_ been a sleep-deprived hallucination, or Goro’s brain playing probably the meanest trick on him that it has to date.  
He _must’ve_ just imagined the tone of Joker’s voice, the softness and cautiously-hopeful hesitancy spoken with each word, spun what Joker actually said into things that he wanted to hear— _Hell,_ maybe he hallucinated the _entire damn call_! Maybe Goro just needed to lay off the drugs, who even knew anymore!

He pinched himself, used his nails to _really_ get in there and check just to make sure he was mostly-sober and actually conscious. His phone still pressed against the side of his head, his eyes still stuck upon the screen that’d long turned black as it auto-locked. Making a quick round over his call history, _Unknown Caller, 04:31_ sat at the very top— evidence that suggested that call _did_ , in fact, just happen.

God, Goro was so _tired_. Maybe he really _did_ just hallucinate that call. Maybe Joker really _was_ just a stalkerish asshole. _Yeah_.

Yeah, Goro could accept that— it was easier to swallow instead of Joker actually being a sympathetic human being who was honest with his words. Goro’d rather deal with a flirtatious, wanton _fuckboy_ than whoever the Hell _Akira_ was any day.

Setting his phone upon the nightstand, he’d bury himself deep into the confines of his comforters once more— a place where he could believe whatever the hell he wanted to believe and let sleep take him to a land of either wonder or terror. Really, _anything_ was better than living in reality at that point, and Goro was run dry and ragged already.

He needed to sleep. _That_ would fix things.

Tomorrow, he’ll wake up and get his morning protein shake and then go cycling around Shibuya. He’ll have some breakfast, and then exercise out on the balcony, and shower before heading to the studio for practise.  
He’ll face Joker, work with that absolute _asshole_ on their performance, build the thing from the (actually not that bad) song the man had shown him, and continue practise late into the night because he didn’t have work, teaching Joker some tricks and trying out their ideas.

Yeah.

Yeah, that was a good plan.

Goro was so _fucked_.


	3. ＩＩ

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [come on honey, cuz we got no time.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eh6vkadl4Sg&list=PLkNa30I_jAe3A4hUDnkmROKZsYrse3bnO&index=3)

Come the next few days, there were no words exchanged between them in regards to what happened on that one, specific night. As a matter of fact, it was like that entire fiasco never even took place: Goro was still making new routines for himself to stock up on choreographies for the club, still reeling in clients both new and old whenever he felt like chipping away at more of himself; Meanwhile, Joker was coming to practise with him on mornings and afternoons, bashful demeanour and wickedly-wide grins and everything.

Joker hadn’t changed much. Keyword being _much_.   
The man still retained that same behaviour, cracking jokes that Goro didn’t even _register_ as jokes when paired with the look in his eyes. Some might say that Goro was jumping to conclusions too quickly here (what with the fact that he’d really only been in contact with Joker for barely past a week) but the thing _was_ a misleading(?) visage coupled with years of building one’s walls up to be thick and tough was.. One Hell of a combination, to say the least.

Joker found it in himself to stop coming to practise late, though— The _one_ upside Goro could give him credit for.

Sometimes, Goro would come back to the studio after a quick lunch break from his other routines to see red silks hung up next to his own, one Joker sitting by the mirrors whilst fumbling on his phone. Sometimes, he’d spot a mop of messy, black hair amongst the crowd (mostly with friends, other times alone) as he made his way there. _Sometimes_ , when that head turned and found Goro, too, Joker would stop for a second, almost look like he was deliberating to himself (a mental debate that Goro had no idea whose purpose was) before continuing on his way— it was just that he wasn’t _that_ subtle about how much his steps had slowed, almost as if to keep pace with Goro’s more long, languid, and _controlled_ strides.

If you wanted him to be honest, Goro had absolutely no idea what that man was playing at here— and though he’d done his best to form his image of Joker based on how hard he worked and what he’d see from him, the whispers of The Velvet Room reached every ear that was willing (and even _unwilling_ ) to listen.

There were stories of wild nights and shots fired, a combination that was both off-putting _and_ intriguing— and though the details were mixed and matched here and there, there was one thing for certain to be concluded from all of them.

Supposedly, Joker had a habit of breaking hearts.   
Armed with debonair charm and looks that could kill, he was a player through and through. At his home branch, the voices passed on that he’d slept with every woman on the first week he was there, and then the entirety of the staff by the first month. They said that he had what was the very definition of a _horse cock_ , and honestly?

Goro couldn’t care any less.

He was here to _teach_ Joker how to get better at the silks, work with him on creating a joint performance, and that was the end of their relationship. Sure, Goro was (literally) a whore, but there was also no possible way in Hell that he’d sleep with any of his co-workers— much less someone as snivelling and conniving as _Joker_ , with his rippling abs and perfectly-curved smile and—

_STOP IT._

“Good morning, teach!”

It was a nickname that Goro’d (forcibly) adopted for a few days by then. While Joker _had_ made good on his promise to (mostly) leave Goro alone once their time was up, it didn’t mean he became any less energetically-annoying; As a matter of fact, Goro felt like he’d slowly but surely been exposed to just how _aggravating_ this man could get as the days came and went, Joker seeming to turn it up a notch or twelve, pump out more and more of those smiles and the “ _jokes_ ” he was so fond of dishing out as more time passed.

Goro wouldn’t quite say that he’d adapted to it, but—

“What’s on the menu today?”

He’d learned to _deal_. It was better than _senpai_ , at the very least; Goro had a feeling it’d come more _sarcastically_ than sincerely when it was laced with Joker’s voice.

On the floor, with his upper half bared and tight yoga pants hugging his spread legs, Goro merely nodded over to the corner in which they usually kept their bags. As Joker snickered to himself and set his sports bag down next to Goro’s, Goro pressed his chest against the floor— toes pointed, feet arched, and fingers reaching as far out as he could get.

He loved this specific stretch in particular: It provided a nice balance of dull aches and blood flowing into his muscles, gave him that satisfying feeling akin to his senses coming alive, _truly_.

As he counted the seconds, though, he heard the light patter of the other man approaching him— all before settling down just feet away from Goro, and without looking up, Goro just _knew_ that Joker had begun mimicking him. With a glance sent upwards, his suspicions were confirmed.

“Have you warmed up yet?” he decided to ask, his tone nonchalant as he pushed himself up, right arm coming over his body and reaching for his left ankle.

At the laugh lilting into his ears, Goro closed his eyes as he further pushed himself into the stretch.

“I jogged here from home, so I should be fine,” Joker replied, the smile just _audible_ in his voice, “Tokyo’s pretty big.”

And if that wasn’t an invitation for more small talk.

Instead of really replying, Goro only gave him a shrug, eyes more to the floor than Joker’s face as he reached the opposite way. The side of his head pressed against the floor as his left hand encircled his right ankle, easing himself to the very brink of his limits. With how much he arched his feet, a _pop_ or two sounded out from his joints, and _goddamn_ did that feel nice.

Perhaps even so nice that a sound of satisfaction hummed from Goro’s throat— something he was made aware of once Joker, yet again, broke the silence.

“You’re really flexible, huh?”

Just how adamant was this man at his attempts to ruin Goro’s day?

“Can you shut up?”

“No.”

_Of course._

At the glare he’d once more sent Joker’s way (which was pretty much _routine_ at this point, a quota that Goro had to reach with each day spent in the presence of the other man) Joker merely huffed out another laugh— loud, echoing throughout the high ceilings of the studios, and dare he say, _melodic_ even.

But that last bit whispered from a corner in Goro’s brain that could shut the fuck up. He was supposed to be preoccupied with stretching his other leg out.

“I mean, it’s too _quiet_ in here,” Joker continued, and chancing a peek at him, Goro caught how he mirrored Goro in his stretch— _staring right at him_ with that tell-tale grin, “Y’know, you really _should_ loosen up, teach. I could help you out with that.”

And then, a wink that Goro very much decided to ignore, among other things.

But just as Goro went on his last go at stretching both hamstrings out at once with his chest to the floor, there was a _something_ darting forwards from just beyond his peripheral— _two_ somethings, in fact, that he’d soon find were Joker’s hands reaching out to him palms-up.

“I could _help_ ,” he repeated, words coming out in a sing-song manner with _more_ than just a double-meaning hidden between each syllable, “Loosen you up with your stretching, I mean.”

Oh, like Goro was going to fall for _that_. He wasn’t born _yesterday_.

Once again utterly _ignoring_ Joker, Goro pressed his forehead to the hardwood, arms bent near him just in case this idiot tried something. With his legs in a perfect 180 degrees like this (straight as the string of a bow and arrow) it felt nice to feel his legs pushed to their very limits before getting on the silks, a sort of wake-up call after the small lunch he’d taken from a nearby restaurant.

While Joker continued to go about his own routine on the floor ( _finally_ giving up those eager attempts to get more out of the brunette) Goro walked up to the golden fabric still swinging and waiting for him. Making quick work to tie the ends up in a knot, he’d lift himself up, wrap his legs and body around the silk. His back was stretched first, his hip flexors and his quadriceps next, as he made to limber out whatever else felt tight— and after he kicked out the knot, he simply locked his hips around loops of fabric from a ways above, before doing _nothing_ but _hanging_ there upside-down.

The blood rushed to his head, a feeling that he needed right at that moment.

Though he’d closed his eyes (let himself simply _feel_ ) Goro could still pinpoint the exact moment a stare found its way trained on him, almost-lifelessly limp on the silks. The hairs rising on the back of his neck told enough, that when Joker wasn’t being the most annoying piece of shit in the world, he was the _creepiest_.

Since the night he’d followed Goro home, Goro’d seen brief peeks and glimpses of Joker near his building just about every night after— loitering, walking past or towards it, whatever the Hell it was he decided to spend his free time doing. A thought in Goro’s head came to him already about Joker possibly living _near_ where Goro resided, all until he’d shoved that idea away completely because _hell no_.

There was also the matter of Joker having his personal number. Sure, Goro could just _ask him_ about it, but that also entailed admitting that he acknowledged the cryptic messages Joker spoke over the phone. If you wanted him to be honest, Goro really wasn’t sure which was worse, and so settled for the lesser evil (the _safer_ option) of the two.

Basically, that one night never existed, never happened, and while Goro was just _fine_ having the memories of so tucked away in the back of his mind, Joker was a persistent little shit.

He never dared to call Goro again, true— but the fact that he oftentimes simply _stared_ at Goro was.. _agitating_.

“Are you done?” he asked, more a tumble of words falling from his lips than anything.

The only reply he got was the sound of the hook beside his silk lowering, the _clink_ of the chains, another sounding off that signalled how it locked in place, and then the sound of a zipper opening. Peering over, he’d all but watch as Joker looped his fabric around the rescue 8, long, deft fingers making quick and sturdy work on securing it onto the carabiner, before jogging back over to the levers by the wall to once more lift the fabric up.

Once red swayed beside Goro, Joker joined him in the air not too long after— and then, as always, locked eyes with him.

“Where do we start today?”

And without missing a beat, Goro shot back.

“From the top.”

Untangling himself from the silks, he’d slide down the fabric until his feet found solid ground again. As Joker stayed on his own nylon, Goro strolled over to the sound system, a deep breath taken in through his nose before pressing play on their song— that which Goro’d been listening to on loop since he first heard it.

An excuse he liked to give himself was that it was good for thinking up choreography in his free time; nothing more, nothing less.

As the first few notes lilted into the air (the riffs of a guitar, the pounds of heavy bass) Goro turned— and when his gaze happened upon Joker already beginning his bit of the dance they’d pieced together so far, he could only watch.

Eyes sharp.

Lips pursed into a thin line.

Judging how this man danced and entangled with red silk.

All the while, he’d ignore the fogged thought stuck in the back of his head, whenever Joker danced.

“Stop.”

Dark eyes found him, staring down from a place high up. Even as tightly as he’d wrapped himself around the cloth, Joker still found him easily, head snapping and stares meeting. The question made itself apparent with the little glint of curiosity seeping into Joker’s gaze, another thing pushing out of the serenity written across his face— a something that Goro recognised as that slow re-emergence from being tugged out of the zone, like sobering from a fresh high.

“You’re still a little too loose when you do a crochet sequence—” With a hum, Goro’s thumb pushed into his bottom lip— fingers somehow (yet again) finding themselves around his chin, eyes sharp as he watched every movement. “Wrap it around yourself tighter. Don’t be afraid to use as much of the silk as you need.”

That was a habit of Joker’s that he caught. While he’d made it obvious enough that he didn’t want to play this safe (in the form of basic move sets and dull, boring choreography) Goro wasn’t _quite_ pleased with how Joker only used barely as much silk as he needed to, which led to looser wraps than Goro liked, along with sloppy transitions.

The one he’d _just_ executed was a relatively basic move considering their skill levels. While yes, he’d only taught this sequence to Joker a few days ago, it should’ve been no problem for him to get it down pat.

“The wraps could unwind while you’re trying to get to the next one and— _yeah_ , just like that.”

Quietly, that smile snuck back onto Joker’s face. Little fucker was pleased with himself, that was obvious— but Goro wasn’t cynical enough to insult him about it. As minor as it was, Joker was the one stuck with the strictest teacher in all of The Velvet Room, after all.

And Goro already knew how badly little mistakes like that could affect the end performance.

Clear out the weeds before they grew into a forest, as they said.

With his free hand turning off the music, Goro motioned for him to get back to starting position with all but a single nod. He could say he preferred Joker like this more than anything, seeing as he followed orders as quickly and as quietly as possible— and by god, never before had silence been such a blessing.

“I want to see you start from the top again, no music, just— Show me everything. I think we still need to work on your belay, too— and don’t think I didn’t see how sloppy that drop was.”

Backhanded as the comment was, that didn’t seem to stop Joker from piping up just as he’d gotten back onto the floor— all starlit eyes and limbs just _twitching_ with the exciting prospect of what ran through his head.

“That reminds me!”

And by god, Goro knew already where this was going.

“I had an idea last night where we could..”

* * *

_Drenched_ wouldn’t even begin to cover how much sweat coated Goro’s skin at that point.

Though the studio was air-conditioned, there was no helping how much perspiration a dancer’s body could produce. Their routine hadn’t even gotten to the more _challenging_ parts yet, and already, Goro was sweating bullets from head to toe, wrapped around his silk and breathing heavy. From beside him, he could tell that Joker was much in the exact same state.

It was only when they were dancing that Joker shut up, it seemed. That was a little something that Goro noticed, hints that he picked up these past few days until he came to the realisation.   
Maybe Joker really _was_ serious about this performance. While Goro was a harsh teacher, he had the capacity to give credit where credit was due— and Joker, even as he switched back to his more annoying persona once Goro called it a day, worked harder than Goro initially thought he would.

Goro was used to taking the reins on a joint performance, more or less. Though this was his first duo silks project, he couldn’t help but fall back into the mindset of needing to handle _everything_ —costumes, lighting, _choreography_ ; the whole shebang—but as mercy would have it, Joker was a force.

Not one to be reckoned with, Goro wasn’t quite sure he’d say _that_ yet, but he was _something_.

The usual day of practise with Joker usually composed of getting warmed up, and then running through the choreography they’d pieced together already, before going on a back and forth of ideas bouncing off of each other as to what to add next. After the general idea of it was finished, Goro would add and tweak some of the tricks laid out in the outline, would sometimes have to teach Joker how to do them (which was when he found out that Joker was a quick study) before starting from the top with the new parts they thought of. From that point, they began brainstorming together, again, and it was a cycle that went over and over until Goro figured they’d ran themselves dry.

Or in this case, _wet_.

Goro was absolutely _bathing_ in his own sweat, and it was getting harder to pull himself up on his silks. That was his cue to declare practise done.

Usually, Joker would have first dibs on the showers, if only because he managed to beat Goro to it nine times out of ten. Wherever he got that energy from even after hours upon hours of dancing, Goro didn’t want to know— and besides, he could sit down and listen to the song again while sipping at what remained of his water, playing their choreography in his head on a loop and thinking of ways to better it.   
He _refused_ to lag behind the powerhouse that was Joker’s imagination. That man had more ideas flowing out of his lips than Goro could shush him, if only to ask him to pick which of them he liked the best and _then_ explain it more thoroughly.

Now, the norm at that point was that they showered separately, even considering that the showers were separated by stalls. Goro wasn’t self-conscious (not by the _slightest_ ) but he didn’t want to be alone, naked as the day he was born, in the same room as _Joker_.

He didn’t care for the rumours, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be _wary_.

So gods only know why he found himself slipping in through the shower room door with his bag of toiletries and spare clothes once his phone ran out of battery.

 _I’m too sweaty_ , one part of his brain reasoned.

 _It’ll feel gross once the sweat has dried up on my skin_ , another said.

 _It’s going to save time_.

_I just want to get home already._

_What the Hell am I supposed to do while waiting for him to finish?_

And a myriad of other reasons.

What was he expecting to happen, really? Absolutely _nothing_ , that was for sure. He was just going to shower, and then get dressed, and then book it back to his place. Yeah.

_Yeah.._

Maybe if he wasn’t Goro Akechi, that would’ve happened exactly as how he planned.

The sound of rushing water flooded into his ears once he stepped into the room. Around him, black and white linoleum in the shape of diamonds covered just about every square inch of the showers, the stalls lining his right, the sinks and a wide mirror to his left. Goro set his bag down on one of the black marble counters, eyes to his reflection in the mirror as he stripped naked and stuffed his worn clothes into the bag, quick as he made his way to the corner stall with his zip-lock of soap.

And right at that moment, with the _click_ of his stall locking closed, did he hear _it_.

Mixed with the rush of water, the sound was faint, almost _inaudible_ , but apparently getting to a closer range heightened the echoes just all that much. It was like a gasp, more a breath at first, something that he wouldn’t have a second thought about. A part of Goro hadn’t even registered the noise initially (something within his head reasoning that it was just the sound of flesh being washed, asking at the same time to keep it out of the gutter) before it sounded off again.

And _again_.

Until Goro was pretty sure he was following the right train of thought.

“ _Ha.._ Fuck..”

He wasn’t sure how far away Joker’s own stall was, but by that point, it was undeniable: The slap of skin on skin echoing amidst deep, velvety moans rang throughout the space, a pleasured groan sometimes dripping into the air. Even if Goro tried to reason otherwise, reality was, unfortunately, that he knew of these sounds too much— that he’s heard them night after night, if not from his own voice, then from that of another.

Even as Goro turned the knob of his own shower on, the noises never wavered.

He told himself that he could ignore it. Hell, with _his_ job, sex was something of a background noise in the midst of his day-to-day music, the headache he could get through if he just bit his lip and closed his eyes. It was as easy as one, two, three at this point— _Joker_ wouldn’t be any different.   
Doing just that, his hands followed the trail of water splashing down upon him. He rubbed at his arms, his pits, turned his face up to the shower once his hands found his neck— and then trailed down, _down_ , feeling the droplets fall faster once he happened upon them, and..

“ _Ah_..”

Joker was a loud one, wasn’t he? With that decadent voice—that nice timbre, a sweet, _savoury_ rumble—Goro couldn’t much blame him. Should the rumours have been proven true, he could imagine how it was possible: Joker was, quite frankly, _hot shit_ after all. He was attractive in all the ways a man _could_ be attractive (though Goro would argue that his personality was completely left out of the equation) and he was clearly _big_ and _strong_. If anything was easy to catch with a charming smile paired with ripped abs, then it was _attention_.

Goro wouldn’t quite say that he often found his eyes wandering to those broad shoulders, or to the muscle-riddled planes of his stomach, but..

Well, the truth of that was a secret he’d take to the grave.

Joker was an attractive man. Though he’d have to say it through grit teeth, Goro could admit as much. It was just plain and simple _fact_.

That was the entire reason why he found his cock hard and standing upright within a matter of minutes.

He had a number of excuses tucked under his (metaphorical) belt already:

One, Joker was hot.

Two, Goro’s mind was _deep_ in the gutter.

Three, the absolutely _sinful_ way Joker’s voice moaned, grunted, sometimes breathed a small, seductive laugh, could send blood straight to anyone’s crotch.

And Goro would sooner die than be caught popping a boner because of that man in specific ( _by_ that man in specific) than anything.

And so, with his bottom lip caught between his teeth, he leaned against the wall next to him, encircled one hand around his dick in the process. His strokes were slow at first—full-bodied touches that sent chills racing up every nerve—though that didn’t last very long.   
Soon, disguised under the backdrop of splashing water, his hand moved faster, _faster_ , blood seeping onto his tongue from how hard he bit his bottom lip. The more he touched himself, the more his mind conjured the endless amount of porn he’d seen, the more his free hand wandered behind himself— up until a finger slipped past the twitching ring of muscle between his ass.

It was hard to do this without any lube, but sober pleasure was a difficult thing to get off with these days. Goro _needed_ to be full—needed the stretch of his hole like he needed air—and though he’d rather have his toys for this, he also needed to be quick about getting rid of his hard-on.

After all, there was no telling when a shower became _too_ long— long enough for the other occupant to notice that he was doing the _opposite_ of getting clean.

But ah, pleasure was such a dizzying thing. Even if it’d only been a few minutes, Goro was already wrapped up in the sheer bliss of self-gratification, of one finger massaging his prostate the exact way he liked. How he played with his cock, thumbing at the slit and squeezing his shaft, coupled with the intoxicating drug that was Joker’s voice (a fine wine with that rough and tantalising edge) sent him straight to Heaven.

In the midst of it all, he’d at least kept a part of his brain sober from the high— the part that watched his every movement, was quick to reel him back from over the edge whenever it seemed like he’d slip in the act and expose himself. At the cost of a bruised lip, Goro would at _least_ be able to keep a part of his dignity— lest he had a feeling that Joker would milk each and every opportunity to tease and piss Goro off once ( _if_ ) he found out that Goro’d been getting off to the sound of his voice.

Which he wasn’t.

Not at _all_.

Joker was just hot— and his voice, much more so.

And even at gunpoint, he wouldn’t admit that, due to unforeseen and unfortunate circumstances, the images that played in his mind’s eye had long been replaced with the sight of dark curls. Eyes like abysses made of ink. Sharp teeth shown through a grin curved in all the right places. Large hands with long and slender fingers, deft wherever and however they touched.

 _Fuck_.

Goro was so _close_.

All he needed was just—

“ _Mh.._ ”

Just another touch.

“ _Fuck_.. Yeah—”

A little rougher.

“Ah— _Ngh_ —”

A little more.

“ _Mnh_ —!”

Just—

“.. _ro_..”

 _More_.

Amidst obscene slaps and rushing water, Goro’s back arched against the tiled walls. His hips moved of their own accord, a crescendo that stuttered as Joker’s voice grew ever louder, ever _rawer_. Under the warm shower raining upon him, his mouth hung open in a silent cry, a shudder slipping past just before he’d bit down harder upon his lip. A warmth coated his hand, dribbled down his fist and spread throughout his shaft— that which he still rubbed, still _fucked_ , in the chase for overstimulation’s burning pleasure.

Around his finger, he could feel his hole twitching, his muscles clenched tight around the slim digit as if to mimic the non-vocal begs he’d make for hot, thick cum. Joker, by that point, seemed to throw common courtesy straight out the window, and _God_ why didn’t Goro slip into the showers with him _sooner_?   
What were once barely-restrained hisses and groans quickly grew into loud, unhinged grunts— growls that hinted at an animalistic instinct to _fuck_ , a desire that boiled like molten gold. _Carnal_ wouldn’t even begin to describe how Joker sounded with the squelch of him undoubtedly stroking his own cock, quick and needy and _desperate_ , echoing throughout linoleum and monochromatic tiles. Surrounded by the sounds of euphoria, Goro found himself giving a final squeeze to his dick, before focusing solely on his hole.

With what cum covered his fingers, he was quick to withdraw his non-dominant hand— only to plunge right back in with two fingers of his left.

And the _stretch_.. God, how could Goro even _describe_ the stretch? It was like water after unending heat, like a buffet after long days of starvation. Once he filled himself more than a single finger could, he found his forehead pressed against the wall, back curved and ass out as his hand did _all_ the little things Goro so loved.

He massaged at his sweet spot, pumped in and out slowly, _teasingly_ , and could only hiss quiet hisses once he scissored himself, wiggled the digits in an attempt to get even looser. There were no high hopes to fit three fingers without ample amounts of lube (let alone an entire fist, which Goro once found he was flexible enough to do) but he’d take what he could get.   
He was starved, _parched_ in a way that could never be sated with mere water, and there was no stopping the desire he felt— a desire that could very well devour the entirety of Tokyo.

If you wanted him to be frank, he couldn’t give a fuck about being caught anymore— as a matter of fact, getting caught sounded like so much _fun_ in that _exact_ moment. It would’ve been perfect, their desires melting into one and left to please each other how they so wished: Joker’s hands wandering amongst every inch of Goro’s skin, Goro’s hole squeezing his rumoured horse cock tight and teasing, their voices intertwining amidst a room that echoed noises far too well. The part of his consciousness that stood steadfast in keeping Goro Akechi in check had long been seduced by the _squelch_ of his hole, by the downright _sinful_ moans that came in deep, velvety tones, and _fuck_ if he didn’t _need_ to be fucked already.

Joker’s voice echoed around him, surrounded his ears and, if he tapped into his imagination, Goro could just about imagine it being right _next_ to him.   
He could imagine those hands (the same hands that gripped onto red silk, those that he used to climb) wandering over his body, touching but never _quite_ touching; He could imagine the look in those dark, obsidian eyes roaming over his form, keen to every little twitch that Goro made beneath him— or perhaps, even squeezed shut entirely.

He could imagine Joker’s lips, curled up in the smirk forever-plastered onto his cheeks, an endless well of dirty nothings and sweet profanities tumbling out just for _Goro_.

What would Joker’s cock taste like, he wondered?

It was the thought that had Goro digging his fingers further in, moving faster, _rougher_ : The images flashing into his head of a flushed head and a thick shaft, sliding in and out of his ass with no care nor reason to ever be _gentle_ ; Deft hands gripping onto his hips to keep Goro steady and right where Joker wanted him; Eyes that were dagger-sharp watching as Goro went wild bucking his hips; Lips dripping with words and syllables that Goro couldn’t comprehend amidst the cocktail of feelings buzzing across his system: Praises, _taunts_ , curses— a groan, a growl, a name.

 _His_ name.

“Fuck..! _Ha_.. Cro—!”

And there it was.

The interlude of pure bliss in the midst of life’s hurricane.

If Goro thought that he’d already drank in all the sounds of Joker’s pleasure, then he’d find that he was dead wrong.   
From what rose above the showers, the sound of wet squelching and absolutely _divine_ moans ripped through the air. Drenched, warm, and still _thirsting_ , Goro’s teeth clamped down onto his arm, revelling in the noises, the scenes playing within his head, what he imagined the look on Joker’s face as he found his peak was like— a sight that could bring the filthiest of fantasies to light with how the man groaned a long, ragged shudder in that decadent voice of his.

Joker’s voice, just at the moment of his orgasm, was like the strongest of whiskeys— smoky and intoxicating.

The realisation of which didn’t come until a minute passed, but once the haze of lust slowly began to fade from his head, Goro found himself kneeled upon the floor, chest heaving, lip bleeding, and his hole clenched firm around his fingers. On the wall before him, a myriad of white streaks indicated that he’d cum again; a moment he didn’t even realise happened.

While his breaths were deep and laboured, the little bits and pieces of better judgment warned him to once again keep his voice down.

The shower room was quiet, save for the sounds of water rushing— an ever-present noise.

Wobbling legs be damned, Goro still picked himself up, using the shower’s knob as leverage as he got back onto his feet. Though every touch still sent shivers racing up his skin, a single (mental) bark at himself got him through the rest of his clean-up, a quick scrub here and there before he pulled off a studio-provided towel hung behind him high on the door.

Perhaps his only mistake was thinking that Joker already left once he heard a single _creak_ whisper amidst the air, just near the end of his shower. Once Goro had the towel wrapped around his hips, he’d all but find the other man leaning against the sink— dressed, arms crossed, and eyes to Goro’s.

“Thanks.”

And by the look in those endless twin voids, the wry smile pulling those lips up, there was no running from the fact that Goro _slipped_.

He _knew_.

But Hell if Goro was going to let this little _slip-up_ get under his skin.

So instead of playing at ignorance, he’d done nothing but approach his bag, his gait nonchalant and confident before ripping the towel clean off of his frame. Bared now, he set it next to his dirty clothes as he bent by the waist (ass sticking out, droplets still dripping upon his skin), rummaging for _whatever the fuck_ in his bag after chucking his soap in there.

He’d allow Joker this: All looks, no touching. He wouldn’t admit to getting off to him, but if Joker found the confidence in himself to basically imply that Goro helped him along in his endeavour, then Goro’d give him exactly what he wanted.

A look.

Never a touch.

The sight of his round and plump ass on full display.

His now-flaccid dick, if that was Joker’s cup of tea.

That should feed him well enough.

Because if that man thought he could tease and bully Goro into submission, then he had another thing coming; There was no being covered (being _protected_ ) in this line of work, and it was high time that _asshole_ got it through his thick skull.

Perhaps catching the split-second glare Goro spared him, though, he heard a chuckle reverberate throughout the space, followed by footsteps that neared him as Goro finally found the spare boxer briefs tucked within his bag. As Joker passed, there was but a moment in which he and Goro locked eyes (like the second in which prey knew the predator circled him, right before the pounce) but Goro’d be _damned_ if he tensed up.

He wasn’t afraid of Joker.

As a matter of fact, Joker should’ve been afraid of _him_.

But whatever tension pressurised amidst the steam-filled air disappeared just as Joker didn’t stop, didn’t _falter_ , and went straight to the door— one hand upon the handle when he turned back and cast a wink Goro’s way, a smile gracing his features to top it off.

“I’m looking forward to next time, teach. Be sure to put some ice on your arm, okay?”

And with a push, left.

Goro chanced a glance down to the arm he’d bitten in his moment of pleasure— finding nothing but red and purple bruises, the indents his teeth dug.

_Asshole.._

Something pitting itself against Goro’s core told him that _next time_ would definitely be interesting.

* * *

If Joker was anything, then he was a paradox— one wrapped in riddles, shrouded by enigmas, and just to play it safe, shut tight within Pandora’s Box.

Suppose Goro _did_ acknowledge that which Joker’d muttered to him, late into the night just a few days ago. If that was true, then why did Goro hear something like a hint of his name dripping from the man’s tongue, the single syllable falling from his lips in a way so _sinful_ that it could make even the most debauched feel chaste? If he _meant_ what he said, then why did a heavy and euphoric shudder follow soon after, the final note of restraint before it all came crashing down?

If (and this was a big “ _IF_ ” here, all capital letters and italicised just to emphasise) Joker really did “ _want to make him feel better_ ”, why was _his_ the name that Goro caught echoing off the lonely, tiled walls, just at the _moment_ of Joker’s peak?

Sure, he could say that he simply _misheard_ the name bouncing off the walls— but that was too _easy_ , too _convenient_. If Goro knew how to do anything, then it was how to play things safe as long as it wasn’t on the silks.

He could pass it off as him simply being one hot piece of ass, say so himself and the whole shebang. Goro wasn’t afraid of admitting that he was easy on the eyes—Hell, he didn’t work on perfecting his gait and the perfect timing of a flit of his eyes for nothing—but to dismiss _that_ as being the sole reason for Joker’s hunger seemed _off_ , in a way.   
For one, he wasn’t blind to the way Joker looked at him every single time they met; For another, the desire dripping from that man’s tongue surpassed the surface-level lust that most of Goro’s partners (clients, hook-ups, fuck buddies) could ever strive for, even combined.

So hanging there, with his chest heaving and his heartbeat dancing in double-time, Goro could merely stare up at the bright spotlight focused on him and _think_.

That was right before a roaring applause began slipping through the white noise of silence in his ears, from an audience he could no longer see behind the red curtain drawn before him.

Right.

He’d just finished dancing again.

Still wrapped around golden silks, his body moved on autopilot: untangling himself from the locks and loops weaving through his frame, sliding down until his feet met the floor— gripping onto the fabric, still, with balled hands and knuckles turned white.   
Already, the rig that’d held his silks up began to lower until it came to eye-level, the ambient music singing into the air of The Velvet Room masking its mechanical _clicks_ and _creaks_. With nimble fingers, he was quick to undo his fabric from its rescue 8, and once the nylon was balled into his hands, he padded straight to backstage, weaved through the dancers getting ready for the next act of the night, all before ducking into his dressing room.

Every cog in the machine had to be quick about it to keep the thing running smoothly, after all. Though Goro was the brightest star shining amidst every performer within a five-block radius, he was no exception to the hasty nature of show business.

Besides, he needed to be alone, maybe; He needed to _think_.

As much as there was a voice in the back of his head protesting (armed with an endless well of excuses to stay and throw away his sobriety for the night) Goro still slipped out of his costume, chucked the red mask onto his vanity table. He didn’t spare the thing so much as a second glance as he threw the white and red bodysuit into the hamper, the golden tassels attached to its shoulder seams hanging limply off the edge as he pulled the dark sweats onto his legs, the black hoodie over his head, and tied the white sneakers sitting under his mirror onto his feet.

He _could_ stay and drug the thoughts out of mind, but that was a recipe for disaster. Goro didn’t trust himself not to moan any names— high and intoxicated, his mind would flood with the images _he_ wanted to see, not the faces of the men and women who came into his whore room.

 _That_ , in particular, would spell nothing but _doom_. Especially considering his current circumstances, he was nigh-sure he’d mess up at _some_ point.

And so, with his silks shoved into his backpack, he was off.

Tokyo was beautiful. While this rang true even in the daytime, there was always a particular allure that shimmered upon the cities when night fell.   
It was when the sun dipped beneath the horizon, when the lights of each and every building burned bright, and when inky darkness loomed at the nooks and crannies, alleyways and shady streets, did Goro feel as if Tokyo _truly_ earned its beauty. At this time of year, as the air grew crisp and the nights grew longer, he often found himself revelling in it all: In the hours that lulled the moon to stay just for a _bit_ more, in the coldness that dried his nose, in the corners he could find to hide away and review the things that needed to be addressed in his mind.

In particular, Inokashira Park.

There was a playground hidden just at the far side of the park, surrounded by strong trees and rarely ever happened upon when the sky turned dark. _This_ late into the night, he had no doubt that most of its usual visitors had already gone home, and with the area being open 24/7, it was the perfect thinking ground.

Or more accurately, _thinking space_.

Because when Goro found his feet wandering there with his silks in his bag, it was more often than not that he climbed up one of the nearby trees—a thing that was large and stood for probably a hundred years—before tying his fabric around a branch higher up. Sometimes, he practised there, _late_ into the night, and sometimes, he merely laid upon the gold surrounding him and closed his eyes— let his thoughts consume him.

Some would argue that it was masochistic of him to allow himself a conversation with the thoughts raging his head like a storm, but that was nothing. Goro’d done worse things, why couldn’t he step it down a bit just this once?

By the time his mind caught up with his body, he was already up above— hidden amidst the foliage and branches, wrapped in gold. It was a bad habit he’d had since the minute he learned he could tie his silks pretty much _anywhere_ that could hold his weight, but Goro wasn’t planning to let it die: The ability granted him more hiding spots than he knew what to do with, and the clear winds of autumn night offering a breath of fresh air from cigarette smoke and the smell of Ecstasy.

He laid within the hammock he made for himself, his backpack snagged on one of the branches nearby. There, Goro did nothing but stare up amidst the leaves, head empty and only really comfortable with picking apart the different shades of orange and red above him.   
Though it was but the second week of October, Autumn was well on its way to Tokyo. In just a few, short weeks, the leaves would begin to fall, and on that tree that Goro so loved to hide away in, it seemed like each and every one was getting ready to shed and begin anew.

A few, short weeks.

That’s right: Goro was only going to be training with Joker for just over six more, wasn’t he? Where did the last twelve days go?

Honestly, he was more surprised that he hadn’t cracked yet, considering who his partner _was_ and how he acted.

Joker was a wild one, and even _that_ sounded like an understatement in Goro’s mind. He managed to tame the other man just fine (at least, enough to get him to come to practise on time and pay attention) but there was just _something_ that was the slightest bit off about him.   
There was the way his eyes flitted over to Goro with a _something_ that wasn’t lust or the desire to have his body, just _sometimes_. It’d always be a brief shade casting over those dark irises, like a little thing that Joker was always just a split-second too late to hide away, and though Goro’d tried to dismiss it as something that he wouldn’t ( _shouldn’t_ ) pry into, he was curious.

There was the Joker that walked into him in the middle of practise, positively sending Goro to the pits of fury within a few, short minutes.

There was the Joker that came into practise late on their first day, nonchalant and radiating an air of confidence, _aloofness_ , bravado.

There was the Joker that had the first of many looks in his eyes, the one that gazed upon Goro with a certain _awe_ that Goro couldn’t quite shake from his memories.

His attentive student.

His partner.

Which one was the _real_ Joker?

There was the Joker that showed up to his room, too— who looked at him with that strange something in his eyes, followed him into a bus, before doing nothing but telling Goro that he wanted to make him _feel better_.. all before ringing him up in the middle of the goddamn night just as Goro was about to fall into the cradle of sleep, if only to reiterate his intentions.

The matter of how he even got Goro’s number to begin with, Goro couldn’t care any less about anymore— it was just the fact that Joker never used it to so much as annoy the crap out of him that got Goro thinking.

There were a few theories in his head about that. They ranged from “Joker became a slightly-more-sensible person and just didn’t bother keeping his number” to “Joker decided the best way to annoy him was when he could actually _see_ Goro fuming.” In the middle of so, “Joker could keep up the grinning poker face he wore in person, not so much when he wasn’t seen.”

Goro wasn’t putting his money on _that_ , but..

Well, it was worth a shot. He’d only consider himself _lucky_ if he got the answers he wanted through _this_ method— If not, then it was either training his head to shut up when it came to Joker or slowly analysing his many faces over the course of a month and a half.

Whichever way, Goro would put this matter to rest for the rest of his life once the curtain closed on the both of them.

_“Hello?”_

He’d be lying if Goro said he even expected Joker to answer, much less within a single ring.

“Joker,” he began, eyes lost in the leaves still, his voice more monotone than anything, “I want to talk.”

What sounded like a confused hum lilted into Goro’s speakers, too high-pitched and far from the mic for it to be Joker’s voice.

_“Sure, just— Gimme a sec here..”_

The sudden silence cutting off whatever noises echoed from the other end had Goro simply sighing, closing his eyes as he waited. It was only the fact that his screen hadn’t lit up once more that indicated Joker didn’t hang up, only muted, and Goro had just about the entire night to hang tight.

 _Wait_ , because what else did he have to lose?

 _“Hey, sorry—”_ Joker spoke up once again after a bit, quiet and reserved, so unlike how he normally spoke, _“I was a lil busy.”_

Not weird, but also none of Goro’s goddamn business.

“About yesterday, in the showers..”

He just couldn’t believe he was actually going to say this.

“Who were you thinking of?”

_“Huh?”_

A rustle here, a shift there. Joker sounded like he was in bed, and that he was sitting up.

_“What do you mean?”_

Did he have to spell it out for this man?

 _Goddammit_.

“I _mean_ when you were getting off in the showers, Joker,” Goro sighed, still settled deep within the hammock, out of sight and in hiding, “You were moaning a name, I could tell as much. All I want to know _is_..”

_God **fucking** dammit. _

“Why ‘ _Goro’_?”

And then, silence. It lasted for a beat, and then two, and just as Goro began thinking that Joker’d curled up in the embarrassment of getting caught jacking off to the thought of him, Joker huffed out a laugh.

It was different from all the laughs he’d heard from the other man— not _mocking_ , but also not quite _genuine_. As far as Goro knew, it was but a chuckle of amusement, almost _sheepish_ in a way.

_“I **didn’t** say ‘Goro’, though.” _

He’ll ignore how the way Joker said his name sent minuscule chills up his spine.

“Then—”

_“I was thinking of a dancer I had a crush on. You probably just misheard me, teach.”_

The fact that Joker himself didn’t even sound sure of that had Goro’s brows knitted together. Was he actually telling the _truth_? Goro could never know with this man.

“What about what you said when you were leaving though?” Goro prodded, his words catching on a hard edge, “What was _that_ all about?”

 _“The “looking forward to next time” thing?_ ”

Joker chuckled once again, all as another rustle sounded into Goro’s ear.

_“I meant it like.. I’m looking forward to the next time we practise? Because I actually like working with you?”_

That _can’t_ have been all of it.

 _“You almost sound like you were hoping for something to happen there, teach,”_ he laughed again, melodic notes singing right at Goro before, _“What were you thinking when I said that?”_

“That I want to break your nose.”

_“Well, I **am** a masochist, too.” _

_Gods **damn** this man to hell. _

A huff blew out of his lips.

“I think that’s my cue to hang up.”

_“Wait, **wait**!” _

Joker laughed once more, a chuckle laced with nervousness that Goro could chop up with a knife.

 _“This time **you** called me, teach,” _Joker snickered, _“Was it just to ask about that thing yesterday? Is that **it**?” _

_‘You’re gonna leave me hanging here?’_

It was the thought that Joker would’ve added, didn’t dare to speak, Goro just _knew_. This man was pushing his luck _and_ Goro’s buttons.

“Actually, now that you mention it..”

Well, if he was going to play this game, then Goro’ll be damned if he lost to Joker.

“I was _thinking_..” he murmured, the tone in his words sharpened to a fine point. Goro lowered it, _quieted_ it, by just _enough_.

_“Thinking about **what**?” _

And even _if_ the purr Joker hummed into his ear sent those same chills up Goro’s spine, he’d ignore it.

 _“You can tell me_ — **_whatever_** _it is in your head right now.”_

Joker was doing that thing again: slipping back into that mask, those velvety tones meant to entice. It wasn’t what Goro wanted, for fucking _sure_.

Shifting amidst his silks, Goro made sure to make the slide of his hands against it just loud _enough_ for Joker’s mind to wander— to trick him into thinking that Goro, too, was deep within the covers of a bed: possibly naked, possibly with one hand down his pants— if he was even wearing any.

_As fucking if._

“How the Hell did you get my number, you fucking creep?”

And that, perhaps, was one point to Goro.

It took a few seconds (something that crept closer and closer to a full minute) before Joker so much as made a single noise— one choked, caught off-guard, and damn if the satisfaction didn’t make a smile rise from Goro’s cheeks.

 _“I—”_ Joker gulped, a second or two before he spoke again, quick and jumbled, _“It was in your papers.”_

What in the actual fuck?

“ _Excuse_ me?”

 _“It was in your papers—”_ Joker tried again, a little breathless now, _“They, uh.. Futaba, my manager— She was forwarded some files when I got here. Just so I could get to know my cute partner better.”_

Why did Goro feel like he shouldn’t believe that? Especially the entire “forwarded the files” bit?

Narrowing his eyes at the screen, Goro’s brows furrowed as he made to _further process this information_. Stubborn thing just wasn’t seeping into his brain— because fun fact: Goro was allergic to bullshit.

“Are you expecting me to buy that?”

 _“Not really, no.”_ He could just _hear_ the shrug Joker had made. _“I just figured you’d be even madder if I told you I snuck a peak at your papers at the manager’s office when I first got here.”_

And that, he was.

Perhaps Joker expected the exasperated breath that Goro sounded off into the mic— one long, dragged out groan that meant nothing but trouble for Joker come their next session.

“I’m going to murder you.”

_“But it’s impressive I managed to memorise your number so quick, huh?”_

“I am actually going to murder you. Even God won’t be able to help you now.”

 _“That’s the thing, teach,”_ Joker chuckled, _easy_ , nonchalant, _“I don’t believe in God.”_

“Then get your ass ready for Hell, you _fucking_ —”

_“I mean, as long as you’re there, I figure I won’t mind— but then again, an angel like **you**?” _

_An imbecile. A goddamn **egomaniac**. Why am I putting up with this? _

After another sigh, Goro pressed a hand over his eyes. Joker was giving him a goddamn headache.

“Sleep with one eye open, Joker. I’m coming for you, so help me God.”

_“Well then, I’ll get the bed ready for us, dear.”_

Goro hung up, just as Joker’s laughter began howling from the other end of the line.

Well that was a complete bust.

_Note to self, don’t underestimate Joker._

So what if Joker even had his number because he basically _stole_ it off his papers? So _what_ if he kept it? Goro could just go ahead and press block on him, and that would be the end of that.

_Actually, you know **what**.. _

It took but a few seconds to send _Unknown Caller_ straight to Goro’s blocklist, all before he’d near-chucked his phone to the ground for good measure.

What kind of power high did that man ride on at a constant? Couldn’t he drop the (frankly, _infuriating_ ) act for _one_ second? Just _one_. Goro would’ve been satisfied if Joker managed to stop sucking his own dick for a _single_ goddamn second!

But then again, what did he even expect from him? _Sincerity_? Goro must’ve been right when he thought that the phone call and the stalking was a wild fever dream from being high and needy; Joker was never going to be straight with him even if his life depended on it.

Goro didn’t need this. He wasted his time coming here— probably lost a potential few million yen, too, and somehow, something so insignificant as _that_ managed to piss him off even _more_.

Untangling his silks, he’d navigate his way back to the streets, onto a bus, a scowl wearing his face the entire time— and when he found his way home, went straight to washing his toys before downing a pink tablet hidden amidst his drawers.

Immediately, he’d get to work about forgetting it—forgetting _Joker_ —for the night, and only focused on the jolts that raced up his skin at each touch wandering all over himself.

All of it set to the steadily-growing background noise of sex above him.


End file.
